The Demon Barber
by Mistress X
Summary: COMPLETE. ToddxLovett, AU It was beyond all reason. The impossibility even made Sweeney Todd, the demon barber, take a few steps back. Mrs. Lovett was still alive.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Most of the fiction you are about to read is based on the newly released Sweeney Todd movie featuring none other than Johnny Depp (yum) as the lead role. Other bits and pieces have been picked up from and the Sweeney Todd novel edited by Robert L. Mack. Due credit will be given to the best of my ability. I'm going to attempt writing in an accent. Please be kind, but I don't mind criticism at all. I'm also attempting to insert some original songs and continue with the musical-esque theme. Once again, please be gentle, but criticism is welcome. As for any other characters they are property of my own scheming, mischievous mind.

* * *

The fire within the bake-oven was still blazing. The iron racks were not in precise rows but scattered and bent into distorted angles.

_Bastard_, Mrs. Lovett thought, _Look'it all this mess! Mr. Let's keep livin' it, just keep livin' it --- will be fixin' it_.

The pies were in disarray. The crust was burnt black. The exposed meat was bubbling, hissing and producing a considerably more noxious stench.

Mrs. Lovett sniffed and scrunched her face, _Must 'ave been the stable boy Mr. Todd polished off _(1)_ this mornin'. Smelt like a horse's back side he did --- and still does._ Mrs. Lovett decided to stand up. She had enough sitting in the cramped space, smelling what's-his-name, and seeing her ruined pies from inside the oven.

Seeing her ruined pies. From _inside_ the oven.

Mrs. Lovett gave an alarming shriek. Her small voice quivered with paranoia, "I'm intended for a pie!" Her head pivoted frantically to each side, body convulsing. She banged her open palms on the oven door. In a hysterical frenzy, Mrs. Lovett began belting out:

"Oh Toby, darling son,  
Where are you love?

Come an' see, look what's been done  
Where are you love?

Help, help, sweet boy,  
Where are you love?

Such a nasty ploy,  
To make me what I make.

Open the door, precious pet,  
Where are you love?  
I wonder yet  
Where are you hidin' love?"

Her arms ached and throbbed with the incessant pounding; her defeated hands slid down the door. The brief pause let her contemplate further. Mrs. Lovett furrowed her brows in confusion. _Shouldn't I be dead?_

She knew what coming _close_ to death felt like. Her memories faded to a few days previous. Mr. Todd held his silver blade snuggly against her pale throat. Her chest heaved awkwardly in that torturous corset while her hands gripped poor Albert's chair. She was braced for the pain. The clean slit and crimson were dangerously close. And then, he was faraway and dreaming of Johanna. And the blade was drooping to her chest. And he was drifting toward the window, staring absently at the gray London sky.

The pain was missing too. She remembered the evening rush. And in her careless haste she grabbed the iron rack instead of a pie. Her fingertips burned an acutely intense pain. So why was that sensation, a sensation that should have engulfed her body, absent?

She glided her fingertips over the leaping flames and felt … nothing. She twirled once, twice, three times. Her dress was beckoning, taunting to catch fire. Only the miserable pies were burning.

Another thought burst through her unconscious. Mrs. Lovett wondered aloud, "How did I bloody well get in the bake-oven?"

She pictured dancing. Mr. T was thoroughly drenched in Turpin's blood but all Mrs. Lovett noticed was his smile. Such a wide, sinister smile. She had mistakenly thought it was genuine happiness. She would be Mrs. Sweeney Todd, down by the beautiful sea. No beadles would poke around for them and the calm seashore would do Mr. T wonders. And he remembered her words! Life is for the alive, my dear. Ah! So he had been listening then. Oh how she just wanted to keep livin' it, really livin' it …

Mrs. Lovett stopped humming those pseudo-heartfelt words Mr. Todd supplied. Her breath caught suddenly as the shock became overwhelming. He _threw_ her into the fire.

There was a loud click, squealing iron, and the door finally swung open. Mrs. Lovett sighed, quite relieved that she did not remember the callous look on his face nor the fire licking, reflected back in those black eyes.

But the memories flooded back despite her supposed relief.

* * *

Sweeney Todd kept a strong grip on the oven door. He stared, eyebrows knit together and nostrils flared. His eyes traced her body countless times. No burns, no bones, no ash.

"You're not burnin'." He languidly stated.

"No, I'm not." She replied flatly.

And oddly enough, she was speaking. Even before that she was harping for dear little Toby. And her desperate cries disrupted his lulling dreams. He dreamt of Lucy, her long hair like wheat tickling his cheek. Such beautiful thoughts interrupted by that squealing voice. He would put an end to it, quickly.

Sweeney jumped up and strode toward the bake-oven. But his pace slowed. Mrs. Lovett would die soon enough. The flames would cleave off her flesh and grind her bones to ash. It was all so deliciously ironic. He laughed wickedly. But his laughter faded as he still heard her voice and movements. He hastily unlocked and swung the door open. And what a disappointment to find her standing, unharmed, amongst that inferno.

"You're not screamin'." He continued.

"I would be if it hurt any." Mrs. Lovett confessed and gracefully stepped out.

"But, why aren't you dead!?" Sweeney shouted, angrily now and just nearly slammed the door on her heavy train.

Mrs. Lovett puckered her lips, feeling a similar anger brewing. "Well, I was thinkin' the same thing in 'ere. You should be dead too Mr. T, by looks a your throat."

Sweeney Todd scrambled through the bake house. He was searching for anything reflective. He spotted his razor in a pool of bright red blood and took hold of the handle. Quickly and with much dexterity, he flicked off the excess and wiped a few stray smears on his pant leg. He lifted the blade to his throat. His eyebrows rose briefly at the irony. A nice clean slit dripped fresh blood onto his shirt. But then the blood stopped flowing. The wound was healing, instantly. All that remained now was a faint scar.

"Did that to yourself I suppose." Mrs. Lovett bit caustically.

His surprise from the expedient healing melted away. "It was Toby."

Mrs. Lovett gasped, "Mr. Todd! How could you think such a thing of poor, sweet Toby? He's just a simple child. That boy did you no harm. You're a poor liar, you are."

Sweeney Todd began his cacophony with a predatory tone:

"A liar, Mrs. Lovett? Ah-ha-ha.  
Who fooled London with succulent veal?

Who claimed people as sufficient meal?  
None other, who other, than you.

A trickster, Mrs. Lovett? Ah-ha-ha.  
Who begged me to spare a young lad?  
Who was only too glad, I might add,  
To bake pies, under your fiendish eyes?

A charlatan, Mrs. Lovett, is what you are.  
What clever plans you devised!  
Arsenic poisoning was the clue.  
But look how the dead rise!  
She was alive, and you knew.

What more can blood thirsty men do, Mrs. Lovett?  
To villains like you."

Sweeney Todd cleaved his razor into the side of her neck. He used the weapon as a shovel and began to dig her flesh. Blood gushed and splattered across her waxen neck. His teeth were bared like a ferocious animal; her blood stained them crimson. He continued, at an agonizingly slow pace, to carve a jagged line across her throat. Mrs. Lovett elicited frothy gurgles before collapsing on the cobblestone.

He tilted his head and examined the murderous masterpiece. Sweeney chuckled, "Mrs. Lovett, you're a bloody wonder."

It was beyond all reason.  
The impossibility even made Sweeney Todd, the demon barber, take a few steps back.  
Mrs. Lovett was still alive.

* * *

(1) Concept taken from the novel edited by Robert L. Mack. Sweeney Todd liked to 'polish off' his customers which is a nice double entendre of actually finishing them off. Sweeney repeatedly claims to "polish off" customers, easily evading beadles and the like, due to his crafty word play.


	2. Chapter 2

_It was beyond all reason.  
The impossibility even made Sweeney Todd, the demon barber, take a few steps back.  
Mrs. Lovett was still alive._

It would have been a putrid, gruesome sight. The corpse was the canvas. The razor was the brush. The blood was the paint. And rigor mortis would have captured her essence perfectly. What an awful shame, a terrible waste of a woman.

Her movements were slow, miniscule at first. A twitch of the fingers. A faint rise and decline in the chest. The slight signs of life would have been missed by untrained eyes. But Sweeney Todd was a perfectionist. He was transfixed, captured by these complications.

Her eyes drifted open. She raised a trembling hand. Her fingers rubbed the intricate gash. And he watched her shake on the cobblestone. She was shivering in pooling blood.

"Mr. T," Her voice quivered. She stumbled on the words, "No pulse."

Sweeney was surprised. He expected Mrs. Lovett to confront his vicious reactions immediately. Instead she was more concerned about …

He instantly knelt down. He roughly jabbed two fingers into her carotid. She elicited a raspy gasp; he barely noticed. There was no drumming artery against his fingertips. He pressed harder, further indenting her flesh. It was a desperate, fruitless attempt. He felt nothing. He seized her wrist and pressed into the radial artery. It failed to pound against his grasp.

It was another terrible disappointment. And a terribly confounding disappointment too. She was breathing but her heart was silent. She was alive but dead.

"What 'bout you?" Mrs. Lovett inquired. Her hand was snaking around his arm. Her fingertips implored for one touch on his pale throat.

Sweeney violently pushed her hand away. She was daft for certain. He would not yield; her honeyed lies prevented any physical advancement. But her question _did_ yield some curiosity.

He searched his throat for minutes. His wrists received similar attention.

"Nothin'." He said aloud, more for his confirmation than for conversation.

"What's happened to us?" Mrs. Lovett whispered. Her breathing became labored. Her panic was evident and clearly displayed.

He hardly cared about her anxiety. But the questions were worth investigation.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett was frightened. She wanted reassurance. She wanted any empathetic sign from Mr. Todd. But his eyes were distant again. And his visage was vacant, void of emotion.

She did not care about his spiel before. The accusations were half true. Yes, she lied. But he lied too. He was the murderer. She merely disposed of the bodies. And times were very hard. The price of meat was preposterous. Plus, the butcher always gave too much bone. That was his manner of trickery. She never included the bones. But that part was never entirely wasted. The sewer rats were very much obliged for those gifts.

Mrs. Lovett rationalized his actions. She knew he was dangerous and unpredictable. He acted on impulse, poor man. And that was the trouble with him. But she admired these primal instincts. Albert certainly never acted on anything but hunger and occasionally lust. But Mr. Todd had such forceful passions. She quickly forgave his murderous attempt. She was convinced it was only experimental. She was certain the results stupefied him as well.

She used her arms for support and sat up. His attention was fixated on her throat.

"Is it worse?" She asked, attempting conversation again.

"No," He replied quite expediently, "It's only a scar now."

"It must 'ave healed all quick-like, just like yours." Mrs. Lovett gulped, "this is a bit a' the devil's magic it is, Mr. T."

"Not quite." A masculine voice interjected.

The soft clacking of shoes echoed on the cobblestone. A tall man walked out of the shadows. He strode toward the pair with purpose.

* * *

Sweeney Todd observed the advancing man. He was smartly dressed in subdued colors. His features were hard and worn with time. But his countenance was not cold. The man was simple save for his eyes. They were the color of amber. They could be likened to candles amidst endless darkness. He offered an extended hand to Mrs. Lovett.

She cautiously accepted; he aided her to stand. Then, he turned and offered an outstretched hand to Sweeney.

The hand was scrutinized as if it was dripping feces. Sweeney abruptly refused by standing without assistance.

"Mrs. Nellie Lovett (1) and Mr. Sweeney Todd, formerly Benjamin Barker. Is that correct?" The man methodically questioned.

"Yes," Mrs. Lovett answered with some apprehension.

However, Sweeney did not answer. Instead, he questioned, "And who exactly are you?"

The man blinked once. Then, he gave a half-hearted smile. "Ah, forgive me. I've had these conversations so many times you see. George Reaping, attorney at law for the recently deceased. Pleasure making your acquaintance. Now, back to formalities. You are Sweeney Todd, formerly Benjamin Barker? Correct?"

"Yes sir," Sweeney answered, quite perplexed. Reaping certainly gave a prompt delivery.

"We are dead then, Mr. Reaping?" Mrs. Lovett inquired.

"Yes, yes of course," Reaping replied. He chuckled and added, "You can't expect to cheat the scythe twice. Ah, and Mr. Todd, I strongly discourage any further acts of violence. That kind of behavior is frowned upon here. And I might add, is hardly beneficial."

The words coming from George Reaping were foreign. Sweeney did not understand. What did it matter how many acts of violence were committed? She was dead. And the sight of her blood was intoxicating. It was almost cathartic (2). He could repeat her death hundreds, no thousands of times now. He fantasized of countless possibilities until her voice rattled something important.

"Where is here, Mr. Reaping?" She continued.

"Ah, that would be Fortune City, Mrs. Lovett. Unfortunately, you won't be seeing much of her splendor. Criminals are usually put under house arrest."

"Are we to remain 'ere fo'ever then?" Sweeney Todd wondered aloud, not expecting an answer.

Reaping laughed, "I should certainly hope not! Or else I wouldn't be much of a lawyer. I might be able to finagle some privileges during your stay here. Of course after a verdict, we have little say in the matter."

"An' what'll happen after a verdict, Mr. Reaping?" Mrs. Lovett prodded.

"Well, surely you'll go above or below Fortune City. Unfortunately, the chances are slim of going above. But, perhaps some witness or two will work in your favor."

An audible yet muffled beeping was heard. Reaping fumbled in his pant pocket. He retrieved an odd contraption that elicited the beeping. He glanced, silenced, and shoved it into his pocket.

"I do apologize, but I am needed elsewhere. Another death, you see. One of my associates will visit shortly. Probably a caseworker or two." George Reaping was concluding conversation quickly. He was advancing to the iron door.

"Wait!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed. She brushed past Sweeney and followed Reaping. She placed a timid hand on his shoulder. "You'll come back? Won'tcha, love?"

"On the court date, yes. One day for you, the other for Mr. Todd," He effortlessly pushed the cast iron door open, and ascended the staircase. But it was a very peculiar ascension. Portions of his body faded with each step, until George Reaping vanished.

Mrs. Lovett frantically turned around. She was obviously very distraught.

"Oh, Mr. Todd, what are we to do?" She begged, clearly desperate for conclusive answers.

But Sweeney Todd was apathetic to her constant questions. A little silence would be perfect. Ample time to collect his thoughts would be ideal.

"Take your own advice Mrs. Lovett," he growled, "and wait."

* * *

(1) Quite a few sources have claimed Mrs. Lovett's name to be Nellie, Margery, or Sarah. I'm sticking with the former.

(2) From what I've learned in Social Psychology this semester catharsis does not work. It only promotes more violent behavior. And yet, very appropriate for Sweeney don't you think?

And many thanks to the reviewers! I hope you enjoy the chapters as much as I enjoy composing them.

George Reaping is property of my mind, if you want to use him, give credit please!


	3. Chapter 3

"_Oh, Mr. Todd, what are we to do?" She begged, clearly desperate for conclusive answers._

_But Sweeney Todd was apathetic to her constant questions. A little silence would be perfect. Ample time to collect his thoughts would be ideal. _

"_Take your own advice Mrs. Lovett," he growled, "and wait."_

However, her incessant, yakking voice continued. His dark eyes pierced her; it was a sufficient warning for silence. But that twit kept blabbering. Each squeaky syllable was so maddening, so infuriating. Oh Mister Todd, Oh Mister Todd, Oh Mister Todd. Those constant repetitions of his name, a name that usually evoked intrigue and foreboding, were suddenly very bothersome. He would never have quiet, even in death.

"Mr. T, are you listenin' to me?" Mrs. Lovett retorted. Her hands were bundled into tight fists. Her knuckles were considerably blanched.

Her angry outburst had somewhat succeeded. His attention was focused on her, for the moment. He noticed the clenched fists knocking against her legs.

Sweeney scrunched his face in disgust, "Do you intend to hit me?"

He observed the idea flicker across her features. But the idea was only an idea. Her hands drooped, opting instead to brush imaginary dust from her dress. She exhaled loudly. She was defeated; he still possessed full control. The thought made him internally smile.

"I could use a spot a' gin," She sighed, and cocked her head toward him, "You, love?"

"Brandy," He replied.

"Expensive tastes, tho' don't much matter now do it? Come on then."

She ascended the stairs one by one. Sweeney was close behind. His razor was too. He never released that chaste silver angel, as Mrs. Lovett so aptly named. There was no reason for his grasp to slacken.

She was a heartless creature, a callous thing. He needed the proof. He wanted to see if a heart was truly there.

Sweeney abruptly shoved her with one hand. Mrs. Lovett stumbled and lost a dainty black shoe at the top stair. She turned back and stared.

"You could'a went up first," She huffed, perfectly oblivious as usual.

He quickly grabbed her nape. She elicited a sharp gasp. His fingers embedded her throat. She mumbled something inaudible. It sounded like pleading.

But Sweeney Todd was not a man of mercy, or forgiveness. This treacherous bitch, this cruel temptress, this daughter of Eve was worthless. She was so awfully pathetic. She only thought of him. Everything she ever did was for him. Or so she claimed. But he knew those were more lies. She was selfish.

He dragged her through the dimly light hallway. His footsteps were forceful against the floorboards. They slightly shook under his weight. She struggled to maintain his pace with one shoe.

Sweeney briskly pushed his victim into the parlor. She fumbled, the other heel catching on the carpet. But she instantly straightened. An incredulous smile spread her lips. She bowed her head.

Her behavior was rather peculiar. He wanted her eyes wide. He wanted her lower lip to tremble. He wanted that delicious shaking, that uncontrollable fear. His eyes drifted from her to the parlor.

The only word he managed to find was, "Oh."

* * *

A man and woman were presently occupying the parlor. The man was standing, idly drumming the mantle above the roaring fireplace. The woman sat with her legs perfectly crossed. Her eyes were fixated on Sweeney Todd. 

"Not engaging in any destructive behavior, Mr. Todd?" She questioned.

"No, no! Of course not, dear," Mrs. Lovett chimed. She was quite flustered, "He was just restless for his brandy, that's all. No harm done, love."

The man stopped his rapping fingers, "You don't have to defend him. The question was not directed at you, Mrs. Lovett."

The woman shifted in the chair; she was undeniably beautiful. Her black tendrils bounced with each miniscule movement. Her eyes were precious emeralds. But her face was hollow, sunken with deep shadows.

The man was handsome enough. His hair was crimson, neatly trimmed. His eyes were a distinct charcoal. His countenance was slightly animated, but a shroud of exhaustion was also present.

Sweeney Todd did not answer her question, "You must be affiliated with Reaping."

"Quite perceptive," was her terse reply.

Mrs. Lovett attempted to create a more conducive mood, "Do you 'ave a name, miss?"

A wave of confusion washed her features. But she nodded curtly and spoke, "I apologize for my stoic behavior. Reaping informed me of your desire for a more personable relationship before formalities. Few clients are concerned with our background. I am Catherine Daver (1), case worker for the recently deceased. This," she pointed to the man, "is my assistant, Thomas Bertram Stone (2)."

"A pleasure," Thomas enthusiastically replied.

Catherine chuckled, "This is his first case, pardon the excitement. Now, if you wouldn't mind answering my question Mr. Todd, we can proceed."

Sweeney Todd was unsure of his answer. He opted for a fabrication, "I was wantin' some brandy. Mrs. Lovett wasn't movin' quick enough, so I pushed her in 'ere."

Catherine studied him with hooded eyes. Thomas produced an obvious frown.

"Mr. Todd," Catherine hesitantly began, "While you can lie without consequence here, the court will not see your answer as favorable."

He was completely baffled. Sweeney Todd, the master deceiver, had been caught. How did she know? He had convinced numerous others before her. Why was she invulnerable?

Her hand motioned for Thomas. He obediently moved to her side. She spoke smoothly, flawlessly, "I will assign you to Mrs. Lovett, Thomas. I believe you will find her more compliant. But do not hesitate to initiate conversation with Mr. Todd. He is quite harmless, just difficult."

Thomas muttered an affirmative reply. He escorted Mrs. Lovett out of the parlor and into the kitchen. Sweeney watched the pair with increasing interest. But his attention was once more brought back to Catherine.

"I don't appreciate such harsh criticism of me demeanor," His voice was laced with venom.

"But it is true, Mr. Todd. You are a difficult, complicated man. Thomas would not benefit from such an intricate case so soon. He still has such a zest for the recently deceased. I would hate to eliminate it, especially this early."

He grimaced beneath her words. He hated hearing the truth. She spoke again after a brief moment.

"You must be wondering about my pinpoint accuracy. It takes practice, but the mention of brandy was confirmation enough. The dead have no need for food and drink. You may have other desires while here. And we strongly discourage any actions on them. And this includes murder, Mr. Todd." Her last statement was emphasized word for word.

"Yes, yes," Sweeney Todd grumbled, "Reaping informed me, but why? Why does anythin' I do 'ere matter?"

"It matters for your afterlife, Mr. Todd."

"I thought what you did up 'ere, on solid ground, mattered." He stated, making an attempt to understand this horrid fate. It was one matter to be alone, but an eternity with Mrs. Lovett was true punishment.

"It most certainly does, what you do while living and dead determines placement above or below Fortune City. And," She added, her voice bordering a small breeze, "I would hate to see your chances for happiness obliterated because of one little _mishap_."

He made a further attempt to understand her, "So you'll tell the court it was an accident?"

"Quite right, Reaping did not come to you immediately upon arrival to Fortune City. He has so many clients, an expedient visit would be near impossible. You cannot be faulted for unawareness."

However, Sweeney was certain one accident pardon would not eliminate what he had done. He had committed so many atrocious murders. Some were corrupt men, men that deserved his razor. Judge Turpin, namely. But what of the innocent ones?

"I believe, Miss Daver, me destiny will be below Fortune City."

Catherine was amused, "Clients never change. Mr. Todd, we have an option yet, with your permission of course."

"Yes, anythin'." Sweeney Todd encouraged.

A positively wicked smile curved her lips, "Insanity plea."

* * *

(1) and (2): Ha ha, more word play. And more will come, I am sure of that. 

I hope you enjoyed, as always. And until next time, faithful ones.

George Reaping, Catherine Daver, and Thomas Bertram Stone are property of my mind. Give credit if you intend to use them!


	4. Chapter 4

_Catherine was amused, "Clients never change. Mr. Todd, we have an option yet, with your permission of course."_

"_Yes, anythin'." Sweeney Todd encouraged. _

A positively wicked smile curved her lips, "Insanity plea." 

"Insanity," The word feverishly rolled on his tongue. He bit his lower lip, mesmerized by the notion. "Do you think I am?" He demanded. _She wouldn't 'ave mentioned it, if she didn't think it true_, he wondered.

"Mr. Todd, I am not qualified to diagnose you. I can only make suggestions. If you would allow me to make an appointment, with a psychiatrist, I think that would be most beneficial." Her voice became monotone and lackluster. It was evident her words were repeated countless times before. The articulation and delivery were hasty, bordering apathetic, "I can return tomorrow, and escort you to a Dr. Richard Mortis, he specializes in criminal psychopathology."

And once again, presented before the truth, Sweeney Todd shrank. He felt vulnerable, violated even. What more could he do? His chances were so slim anyway.

"Yes, whatever you think is the best for me." His voice was tiny, crushed.

"And for Mrs. Lovett," She corrected.

Sweeney swallowed the urge to scream and barely managed a reply, "Yes, of course."

* * *

Thomas Bertram Stone was perhaps just a little too enthralled, Mrs. Lovett decided as he escorted her into the kitchen. 

His black suit was pressed and ironed with obvious care. Not a white touch of dandruff was present. His physical presentation was spotless. If he could only control that overbearing excitement, Mrs. Lovett would have appreciated his presence more. His emotions made him appear too young, too inexperienced. She was worried.

He motioned for her to sit. She chose a booth by the window. He sat in a chair directly across from her. The table was covered with dust, dirt, and an occasional flour trail. Thomas was about to place his folded hands on the table, but quickly opted for his lap.

"Mrs. Lovett," He began, with a pearly grin, "I am so pleased to be working with you."

"Oh deary, I can tell. Lookit you now, 'bout ready to explode ain't you?" Her sarcasm was exaggerated; she silently prayed this dramatic enthusiasm would cease.

And much to her surprise, it did. Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his chair before speaking, "I am sorry. Miss Daver did mention this as my first case. I will be professional from now on."

"Right then, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett encouraged, "What can you do for me now?" Her removal of pet names gave him an obvious confidence increase.

"I am assigned to your specific case; all you tell me will be related to Miss Daver, who will in turn relate that information to Mr. Reaping. I have records from your birth to death, Mrs. Lovett. So if you cannot recall specifics, there is no need to worry."

Mrs. Lovett wrinkled her nose; it was slightly alarming that one man knew every aspect of her life. But the bizarre and improbable had to be ignored. She would never get straight answers wondering about the unusual. However, a particular question was tickling her tongue, scratching for release.

"If you know me life story, why are you sittin' 'ere talkin' to me?"

Thomas gave a half-smile and spoke, "While our records are quite detailed, they are not perfect. We may have record of your marriage to Albert Lovett, but we do not know your feelings of such a marriage. And that is what the courts are interested in. And what better indicator can we find then you, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Mr. T is goin' to 'ave a world a trouble with that, he is." Mrs. Lovett blurted.

Thomas chuckled, "Well, that is why Miss Daver decided to take his case. And since you are my client, I need to ask you a few questions."

"Of course, Mr. Stone," She politely replied.

"Do you recall the first day Sweeney Todd, the previously known Benjamin Barker, entered your pie shop on Fleet Street?"

"Oh, yes. He was lookin' awful frightful. So white, thought he was a ghost." Mrs. Lovett recalled; her voice was light and dreamy.

"And do you remember, taking him into the parlor for some gin?"

"Yes," She replied before hesitantly adding, "He asked 'bout his wife an' daughter."

"And what did you tell him, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Arsenic poisonin' and Johanna was with Turpin," Mrs. Lovett stated. She was tapping her fingers on the table. The behavior indicated her increasing anxiety.

"But you never told Sweeney Todd his wife was alive."

"No, no I didn't," Mrs. Lovett was drumming her fingers on the table. Her glance drifted down, in obvious shame.

"Why did you withhold the information?" Thomas kept pushing, questioning.

"Well, Mr. T never _asked_ if his wife was alive. He only asked where she was." Mrs. Lovett responded. She thought her answer was sufficient enough. It had to be sufficient enough to change the subject.

"Yes, but you knew Lucy Barker was in the streets. She was a beggar woman, a prostitute, very desolate. You could have pointed her out to Mr. Todd, why did you fail to do so?"

Mrs. Lovett instantly snapped, "Why are you askin' me all these awful things? I thought you were defendin' me."

Thomas was flustered. His cheeks were stained a light pink. He was quite embarrassed. He spoke with reassurance, "Mrs. Lovett, I am most certainly on your side. But these are similar questions the court will ask. They are harsh and judgmental. I only wanted to prepare you; I apologize if I offended you."

"Can we talk 'bout somethin' else then?" Mrs. Lovett asked, desperate for a change.

"Yes, yes! We have your entire life to cover, Mrs. Lovett. But I would like to remain in your most recent, remaining days. Do you recall leading Sweeney Todd into his former barber shop?"

"Yes, poor dear," Mrs. Lovett sympathetically began, "The look on his face, heartbreakin' it was. Fifteen years since he seen that place. Been through awful times, like him I would suppose."

"He most certainly has. You gave him something that day, didn't you?"

"The razors, those chaste silver angels," Mrs. Lovett murmured. She sighed audibly, "Quite a bit a trouble those did me."

"And why would you say that, Mrs. Lovett?" Thomas was prodding again, trying to delve deeper into dangerous matters.

"Say what?" Mrs. Lovett was playing dumb on purpose.

"Why did you say the razors caused you trouble?" Thomas displayed no sign of impatience or irritation.

"Well, if I never gave Mr. T those things, I suppose me body wouldn't 'ave been burnin' and I wouldn't be 'ere-- Fortune City." She triumphantly smirked. She could play inconclusive games too.

"And Sweeney Todd would have no reason to stay with you, Mrs. Lovett." Thomas pointed out, stating the painfully obvious.

She refused to look at him. Her gaze settled on the window; she pushed the dismal curtains absently. "I suppose he wouldn't, Mr. Stone," She stated.

Thomas produced his classic frown, "You know, Mrs. Lovett, you are acting rather avoidant. And while that is not good for you, it may be good for your case. If I might make a suggestion?"

Mrs. Lovett nodded, still feigning interest, still looking through the window at nothing of particular interest. Since absolutely nothing was there anyway, it was endless darkness.

"Without question, Mr. Todd has been offered a similar suggestion. I will make an appointment for a psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Mortis. He can diagnose you properly, and this will give you an advantage in court."

Mrs. Lovett turned to Thomas again, "What are you talkin' 'bout?"

"Your case would be perfect for an insanity plea," Thomas encouraged.

"Now see 'ere Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett angrily started, "I'm not daft, nor do I intend to act as if I am. Mr. Todd would never agree to this."

"Your assumptions are incorrect, Mrs. Lovett," Catherine Daver interjected. She briskly walked into the room. Sweeney followed in her shadow. Thomas immediately stood. "Mr. Todd has arranged a visit with Dr. Mortis tomorrow. I strongly suggest you do the same."

Mrs. Lovett was flabbergasted. She questioned Sweeney, "What do you think, Mr. T?"

"Do the right thing, for once." He grunted.

* * *

Whoops, just realized I made a slight boo-boo in Chapter 3. I had Sweeney wanting gin when he first asked for brandy. I shall fix it though, no worries there. 

And maybe a few people are wondering why the characters aren't breaking out into song quite as frequently. I didn't think it would be appropriate, or tasteful, for Catherine and Thomas to sing some spew about the afterlife. It just didn't fit. Songs will more than likely be sporadic, but I think that would flow better with the direction the story is headed.

Until the next update, faithful ones. :)


	5. Chapter 5

"_Your assumptions are incorrect, Mrs. Lovett," Catherine Daver interjected. She briskly walked into the room. Sweeney followed in her shadow. Thomas immediately stood. "Mr. Todd has arranged a visit with Dr. Mortis tomorrow. I strongly suggest you do the same." _

Mrs. Lovett was flabbergasted. She questioned Sweeney, "What do you think, Mr. T?"  


"_Do the right thing, for once." He grunted._

"Suppose I'll go then," She timidly replied, "Are we goin' together?"

Sweeney Todd noticeably stiffened, and his eye twitched with annoyance.

"No, you will go separately. I will escort Mr. Todd at precisely noon tomorrow. Thomas will escort you at three o'clock," Catherine Daver delivered her statements and strode toward the door. She turned the handle and exited, slamming the door.

Thomas pushed in his chair, made a hurried farewell and left.

Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd were alone once more.

* * *

Sweeney was silently mouthing a strain of obscenities. Her mousy voice was still vibrating against his ear drums. What do you think, Mr. T? Will we go together, Mr. T? Was she so useless, so infantile that a single decision could not be made on her own? He wanted to strangle her; his fingers ached for it. He was burning with murderous intent.

He needed to be in a room without her presence. The closest door was the one that lead outside, into the darkness. He chose that.

But, as if by some devious intervention the witch spoke, "I don't think we can leave, Mr. Todd."

He reached for the handle anyway, despite her objection. He was disappointed to find the door locked. There was no way to reach his shop. He tried the side door instead, but it would not yield.

"You never listen to me," She was exasperated, "An' apparently you don't listen to Reaping either, love. We're stuck in 'ere."

"AN' YOU NEVER SHUT YOUR TRAP!" He shouted wildly. He was volatile, bursting with suppressed rage. He stomped over to the booth and slammed his fists onto the table. He pounded furiously against it; the flour and dust were forming tiny clouds.

Her back was pressed against the booth. She watched his movements intently, silently.

"Why, Mrs. Lovett? Why?" His voice was so strained, "Why did you lie to me?"

She whimpered. Her eyes brimmed with tears; but she was afraid to answer.

"Answer me!" He wildly exclaimed, "Tell me why!"

Her voice cracked, "You lied too, love."

"You remember the day you brought breakfast to me shop?" He questioned, changing the subject on purpose.

Mrs. Lovett nodded. Her eyes were glassy; her lower lip trembled.

"You said we could 'ave a life together, that it wouldn't be much, but we could get by. Before Anthony came," Sweeney was certain their eyes locked, "I thought it would 'ave been nice."

Mrs. Lovett gave a startled sob and stood. She rushed away, nearly knocking him down. She retreated to the parlor; then he heard a door shut and lock.

It was then that Sweeney Todd came to a realization.

His eyes twinkled with new, mischievous purpose.

He didn't have to _murder_ Mrs. Lovett to hurt her.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett collapsed on her bedroom floor. She couldn't make it to the bed.

She wept uncontrollably, her chest heaved with each lamentation. Her cheek pressed against the cool floorboards; it gave some comfort for the hot, streaming tears.

_You said we could 'ave a life together, that it wouldn't be much, but we could get by._

"That I did, love," She whispered, "Oh, I meant every word of it."

_Before Anthony came, I thought it would 'ave been nice._

She choked on a sob, remembering those words. It was a rarity, but he sounded so sincere then. And that meant there was a chance. However small, he had thought of a life with her, and he thought it _nice_.

That seaside wedding was hopeless now; her fantasies of married life with Mr. Todd were wasted. She had dreams of picking seashells, walking with intertwined hands, glorious seafood suppers, and of course a loving husband.

She had prayed Lucy Barker would die of consumption or some such other disease since his return. But no, that little harpy thrived on poking around her shop. She was a meddling woman, interfering on her and Mr. Todd's only chance for happiness. He really had done her a wondrous favor in the end. He was spared the shame and disappointment of a dejected woman. Would he have loved his Lucy as a beggar, as a filthy whore?

But he had _thought_ of life with her. And that meant he did not _think_ of it now.

She cried her remorseful song into the carpet:

"There was a baker an' her strife,  
Was an awful plight,  
To keep the barber from his wife,  
An' begin a better life.

There was a baker an' her place,  
Was to eliminate any trace,  
Of that prying, putrid face  
An' present her love a better case.

His wife was virtuous, those many years ago,  
But how could he ever know,  
The truth dark an' plain,  
That woman had herself to blame.

And she remembered his strain,  
Fifteen years an' nights of endless pain.  
And she would spare him shame  
To think her still fair, miss what's-her-name.

There was a baker an' her desire  
For the barber would never tire.  
There was a baker an' her crime  
Was to make the barber ...  
Mine."

Her thoughts were interrupted by three brisk knocks. She instinctually straightened. She slowly stood, brushing stray tears with her wrists. She patted her dress down; even though it was perfectly fine. It was a nervous habit, clearing away imagined grime. It had been worse before though, with making the pies. She would pat and pat and pat. It had to be at least eighty times a day, if not more.

She pulled a long, red ribbon from her corset. A silver key was looped at the end. She roughly jammed the key into the lock, and swung the door open.

Sweeney Todd stood in the doorway, hands behind his back. He looked guilty.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett," He confessed, meeting her shocked gaze.

"What?" She questioned mouth agape. Was he actually apologizing?

"I'm sorry," He stated again, this time with slight agitation. He waltzed into her bedroom.

She took a few steps back, "Are you feelin' alright, Mr. T?"

"Never better, my pet," He hissed. He advanced on her again.

Mrs. Lovett took sanctuary on her bed. She pushed her back against the banister. She noticed a peculiar gaze in his eyes. There was a hidden purpose in his walk. And there was a subtle smile spreading his lips.

_Oh, no. He'll be slittin' me again_, she thought, _I should 'ave never opened the door._

Her eyes clasped shut. She was braced for his murderous artistry. His hands were forcefully grasping her throat. The cold razor was suddenly scalding against her collarbone. It waited there, while his other hand snaked her nape.

'_Ere it comes_, her thoughts were dreary, _make it quick, love_.

His lips crashed hers; it was like sandpaper, abrasive and rough. She was startled, even though her mouth protested, she broke their dancing tongues.

"Mr. T," She panted, "What 'as gotten into you?"

"A desire, for a certain baker," He whispered, and suckled her throat.

She gasped, partially from surprise and partially from pleasure. He was listening to her, for once. Well, it was eavesdropping actually. But what did that matter now? His razor made jagged cuts into her dress; her chest heaved in wanton anticipation.

His teeth clamped her collarbone, it was possessive and primal. His nails dug her flesh like shovels. He was marking her.

His breath was ragged, as he worked lower. His hand, and razor handle, pressed her covered breast. He mumbled on her chest, "Oh Lucy."

The brief intoxication was over. Her eyes snapped open.

He was working on her corset now. He was oblivious to the mistake.

Mrs. Lovett was infuriated. She would have never snubbed him. But granted she never pictured their love-making haphazard like this. She refused to be a mere outlet for his wife. She deserved better.

Her neck twisted down. Her mouth brushed his ear. She whispered, "Oh, Benjamin."

His eyes, like revolvers, were aimed at her. "Me name's Sweeney Todd," he corrected, a feral growl reverberated against his clenched teeth.

"Ah, well. I don't see fit to call you Sweeney Todd if you see fit to call me Lucy Barker."

She escaped his now slackened grasp, and walked away. She had made a decision.

* * *

Author's Note: I am a little nervous about posting this chapter, since I have a fear of hounding fangirls (and guys perhaps) wanting to slit _my_ throat for making Sweeney such a … well, asshole. But how realistic would that little tryst be all lovey-dovey and romantic? Not very, and extremely out of character I might add (which I try to avoid). And maybe Sweeney is a little out of character too, but I'm playing up his 'sick in the head' factor. And to be quite honest, I love every bit of it. And maybe Mrs. Lovett should have let him ravish her, or maybe she should have said "Oh, I'm as good as Lucy?" and a lemon scene would have flourished. But I think its too early for that. And besides, I see Mrs. Lovett as a selfish, jealous woman. And a woman like that wouldn't let his error slide without consequences. ;)

Until next time, faithful ones.


	6. Chapter 6

_His eyes, like revolvers, were aimed at her. "Me name's Sweeney Todd," he corrected, a feral growl reverberated against his clenched teeth._

"_Ah, well. I don't see fit to call you Sweeney Todd if you see fit to call me Lucy Barker."_

_She escaped his now slackened grasp, and walked away. She had made a decision._

* * *

Sweeney Todd was more than shocked; he was offended. He was _positive_ this ruse was genius, infallible. That little seedling of mock affection was planted. The deceitful flower was blossoming. And she uprooted it, with one swift tug. He underestimated her. Mrs. Lovett was certainly bizarre, borderline insane even. But she wasn't an idiot. 

He couldn't hear all her muffled blubbering. He scarcely made out something about an unyielding desire. And then he was knocking; he was knocking based on a hasty assumption.

And now what was left? An empty bedroom. A botched plan. A dull blade. And a distinct throbbing against his pants.

"Shit," He vehemently cursed, "How did this go all awry?"

He meticulously reviewed his steps. _First, tell her somethin' romantic. Somethin' 'bout life with her. Second, come on strong. Third, think 'bout Lucy so you can …_

He was picturing her smooth skin; and her golden hair like spilled liquor on the pillow. Her swollen pale breasts; then engorged with milk. Those pink rosebuds; they would tighten with just one gentle brush. And her thin, parted lips. That small, mewling voice. Oh, he would always cherish her.

And it was evident. He said _Lucy_. He said _Lucy_ into her heaving chest.

"Well, no wonder," Sweeney mused aloud, "No wonder she stormed out a 'ere."

But that slight slip did not elicit an intended reaction. He expected her to bawl, squeal like his victims before the razor slice. Or he expected her to rot and wither. He expected a defeated relaxation of her flesh. He assumed her complete surrender. But she refused him. She even insulted him.

Although it was grueling to admit, Sweeney admired her shroud of decency. It was a commendable quality.

* * *

It was morning, according to the kitchen clock anyway. The windows still reflected infinite black flack. 

Sweeney had slept less than two hours. He decided to play gentleman and relinquish her bedroom. His slumbering place, unfortunately, was a cramped booth. However, his initial makeshift bed was the floured counter. But soon his dreams captured a crazed Mrs. Lovett knuckle-pounding into Sweeney-dough. The booth, thankfully, produced no loony neighbor nightmares.

But he hadn't seen Mrs. Lovett since their slapdash rendezvous. The thought momentarily flit across his features. He shrugged. He cared little for her exact location; she would eventually crawl around, making him miserable with idle chatter.

The appointed hour had arrived. Sweeney bolted upright as the door swung wide. Catherine Daver strolled toward his meager sleeping arrangement.

Her nose scrunched. She condescendingly shook her head, "I have a suspicion that you deserve to be out here."

"Prolly so," Sweeney yawned, stretching his feet under the table.

"Will Mrs. Lovett see you off?" She questioned, skimming various corners.

"Prolly not," He confirmed while standing, "We should head out then."

"As you see fit, Mr. Todd," Catherine Daver coolly replied.

The pair departed, Sweeney still following her shadow. The door banged against faltering hinges. He raised an expectant face to … more darkness. The landscape was an inkblot. The pie shop, in its filthy brick majesty, was visible. The enticing staircase to his barber shop was nearby. And a pinpoint building was some distance away.

"Suppose this is what Reaping meant by not seein' city splendor," He scowled.

"Perceptive as always, Mr. Todd," Catherine responded, slightly bemused, "Criminals and the like are blinded from Fortune City. Only necessary visuals are allowed. But of course, Reaping will mend some of these restrictions. Now, your appointment waits."

They walked in sweet, Lovett-less silence.

* * *

Dr. Richard Mortis was a skeleton of a man, bald and lengthy. His spectacles were precariously low, practically sliding down that alpine nose. His slender fingers flipped through the contents of a folder marked 'Benjamin Barker, alias Sweeney Todd.' 

His assistant, a Miss Emma Balm, occasionally scribbled into a leather bound notebook. More often, her fountain pen found homage resting on painted ruby lips. Her thick eyelashes fluttered upon mention of anything particularly violent.

And Sweeney Todd was reclined on a couch, clacking his shoes together.

"Do you have somewhere else to be, Mr. Todd?" Mortis asked, eyes absorbing the countless papers.

"Suppose I don't," He flatly replied.

"Then, I suggest you cease rude interruptions. Your entire life is, pardon the layman's term, a psychological mess." He plopped the thick folder onto Emma's lap. She winced as a paper whirlwind formed on the Oriental rug.

"Now, what brings you to my office, Mr. Todd?" He began, pointing to scattered papers as Emma stooped to retrieve each one.

"Well, Miss Daver made a suggestion, 'an 'ere I am," He concluded.

"Ah, a referral," Mortis nodded and quickly stated, "But why are _you_ here?"

"Curiosity," Sweeney spat after an elapsed minute. Emma snickered.

"I must say, your answers are very succinct. You are always pondering, thinking. I even suggest rumination. Would you agree, Mr. Todd?"

"Of course," was the bland, monotone response.

"Ah, ah. I detect boredom, an apathetic void of emotion. Miss Balm, suggestions?" His voice was inquisitive.

She flopped into an armchair beside the gangly doctor. An exaggerated sigh escaped her open mouth. She didn't even glance at the perfectly filed papers. "I suggest a deviation from Axis I, Dr. Mortis. I believe the diagnosis would be more accurate from Axis II. No signs or symptoms of mental retardation. But I detect underlings of a personality disorder."

"Yes, I concur. Well done, Miss Balm," He produced the icy encouragement, and then gazed at his patient, "So many maladaptive traits. But the questions, and the answers, Mr. Todd! Let us get to them, shall we? Would you consider yourself introverted, Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney wrinkled his nose, "I do prefer solitude, if that's what you mean."

"Yes, yes. Introversion may include a desire for solitude, certainly. Do you prefer solitude to the company of friends?"

"I have few friends, but they have served sufficient purpose." Sweeney replied, lightly fingering his concealed razor.

"What about Mrs. Lovett?" Emma Baum interjected; her voice was laced with winter. Sweeney found it discomforting.

"What 'bout her?" He tersely questioned.

"Is she your _friend_, Mr. Todd?" Emma questioned; she was perched on the armchair.

His nostrils flared in aggravation, "Hardly."

She breathed an audible, relieved sigh. Mortis loudly cleared his throat.

"I believe from the brevity of your statement, Mr. Todd, that your relationship with Mrs. Lovett is rather strained. Would that include a strained sexual relationship?" Mortis methodically asked.

A sexual relationship with Mrs. Lovett; the thought nearly had Sweeney Todd choke on his saliva. He was close to _knowing_ her the previous night, but the words 'sex' and 'relationship' were inappropriate together. His intentions were strictly damaging. He had no intention for enhancing their supposed relationship. He observed Emma stiffen; her seductive smile soured.

"I care little for knowing Mrs. Lovett," He snapped, watching Emma become perky.

"Well enough, Mr. Todd," Mortis stated, "Do you have any activities? Or hobbies?"

"To slit the throat of any man that done me, me wife, or me daughter harm." He was caressing the blade now; his eyes were dreamy and clouded.

"Ah, revenge. Of course, precisely. Miss Balm, your diagnosis please." Mortis concluded, eyes interlocked with his counterpart.

"301.20, Dr. Mortis," Emma Baum gushed with exhilaration.

Sweeney raised one dark eyebrow in confusion.

Dr. Mortis clasped his hands together. The sound was similar to meat stripped from bone, shearing and crackled. He spoke eloquently, "Your assessment has characteristics of a distinct, albeit rare personality disorder. Your desire for close, intimate relationships is nonexistent. You enjoy solitude, preferably in the barber shop I would assume. You have little desire for sexual relationships. Your preferred activities are limited to revenge-seeking. Your friends are few, and inanimate, yes Mr. Todd I noticed you fondling the razor in your pocket. You are indifferent to praise or criticism. And you display emotional coldness, detachment, and a flat affect. Miss Balm has accurately diagnosed you, Mr. Todd. You have schizoid personality disorder."

"Oh," He mused, "Is that all?" This accurate analysis was quite maddening. Sweeney tightened his grip on the razor handle. His precious friend was needed again.

"No, no. Axis III, IV, and V must be considered. I will fill out the multiaxial evaluation report form. Miss Daver will want one too, for records of course. Miss Balm you may interview him further, practice your skills. I shall return shortly." The doctor hurriedly stood and exited. The slammed door still echoed throughout the office.

Emma Balm had glossy, hooded eyes. Her smirk reflected mystery and secrecy. She rose languidly and sauntered to him. She sat; her rear playfully bumping his legs.

Sweeney was, as always, uninterested. He blankly stared through her.

"I don't have any more questions for you, Mr. Todd," She confessed.

"Just as well," He answered; the sentiment absent.

"But you are so wonderfully fascinating. I have always found convicts a true pleasure, and just imagine my excitement at reading the _Fortune Times_ a few days previous. New Arrival: Sweeney Todd, barber of Fleet Street, London throat slit by Tobias Ragg (1). Oh, _you_! _You_ had finally died. I beg your pardon, Mr. Todd, to speak of your demise with such vigor. But, oh have I waited." Her voice was husky, honeyed and thick. Her acrylic nails made circles on his gray pant leg.

His stopped her wandering hand with his unsheathed razor. But her smile was wicked. She pounced despite obvious warning. She straddled him, running intrusive fingers through his wild hair.

Her whispers were hungry and possessive:

"Oh, Mr. Todd do not make me wait,  
Ooh, Mr. Todd for what I yearn to take.

Now, Mr. Todd quickly undress,  
Now, Mr. Todd no soft caress  
Will suffice my needs  
So if you will, take heed:  
It is dishonorable, to make a woman plead.

Yes, Mr. Todd for me you will,  
Produce such a delightful chill  
Through my spine  
As I take what is mine.

But Mr. Todd, too Mr. Todd,  
Just give affirmation, a slight nod  
And I relinquish the clue  
To save you, too.  
Now, hush, save your mouth for me,  
And after I shall provide the key  
For your glorious destiny."

But her parted lips received a new color; a dark, dribbling crimson. Sweeney sliced his razor across her trembling lips. She reeled back in shock. Her mouth instinctively widened to scream. But he scraped her tongue; bloody papilla coating the blade. He violently jabbed her soft palate, once, twice, three times. Her uvula dangled by a miniscule thread. Her voice was garbled as blood formed rivulets down her throat.

It wasn't enough. Memories of Adolfo Pirelli, _Davy_, were flooding back. This conniving vixen, this vile temptress was threatening him. Half your earnings for my silence. Service me and I shall service you. Sweeney Todd was not a negotiator.

He pressed the blade against her neck and cut. Each jugular splattered steamy blood across his poised face. He didn't blink.

Emma Balm crumpled, falling backward into a hacking fit.

She wasn't dying. She was spitting out more blood. Sweeney deemed this impossible, since little remained of her tongue. But her gashes were sealing, much like his.

She shook with rage, pounding her fists on the couch. She rebounded and roughly grabbed his shirt. Her labored breathing was scalding against his face.

"Stupid, stupid crazy fuck," She cursed, tinted saliva trailing down her chin, "You've made such a foolish mistake."

* * *

(1) I don't remember if Toby had a last name in the movie or not, so I've taken his full name from the book edited by Robert L. Mack.

Apologies for the delay, but life does throw some rough curveballs. I hope you enjoyed the slightly longer chapter though. :)

Ps. Emma Baum is a scheming bitch and I love it. And Dr. Richard Mortis is oblivious for leaving her alone with Sweeney, but I still love him too.

And whoops, made another boo-boo. Changed Balm to Baum. Ugh, I will fix it.

Until next time, faithful ones.


	7. Chapter 7

_She wasn't dying. She was spitting out more blood. Sweeney deemed this impossible, since little remained of her tongue. But her gashes were sealing, much like his._

_She shook with rage, pounding her fists on the couch. She rebounded and roughly grabbed his shirt. Her labored breathing was scalding against his face._

"_Stupid, stupid crazy fuck," She cursed, tinted saliva trailing down her chin, "You've made such a foolish mistake."_

"The only mistake love," Sweeney began, razor firmly clutched, "was threatenin' me."

"A threat!?" Emma Balm exploded, bloody spittle showering his face, "I hardly consider a desire for carnal knowledge a _threat_. It would be a _favor_, after all. It would be such a relieved burden, after fifteen years—"

"An' what 'bout 'nother fifteen?" Sweeney interjected.

"What?" She questioned; a confused frown tugged her pretty painted mouth.

"Schizoid, that's me ain't it? An' from what I recall, me desires for _carnal knowledge_ are few. An' that includes knowledge of you, Miss Balm." He caustically bit the words; his nostrils flared slightly.

His words, for once, made a desirable impact. Emma Balm sniveled, choking back impending tears. She turned away and briskly stood. Her posture was rigid.

"I will never forgive you," Her voice was arctic yet composed, "And neither will the court. But as my profession dictates, I wish you the, well, _very_ best."

Her retreating, stomping shoes were deafened by the Oriental carpet. She pulled the door open as Mortis entered. He brushed past her, not even glancing at her diminishing shadow. His eyes darted over the multiaxial form; he blew lightly on the semi-glossy ink.

"Well, then. Here you are, Mr. Todd," He declared while taking long strides.

The single piece of paper was presented to Sweeney Todd. His entire life was reduced to a thin white sheet. It was remarkable, actually, in its simplicity.

And more remarkable yet was Dr. Richard Mortis and his dismissive, oblivious manner. Sweeney felt, that little harpy, Emma's blood cascading his cheekbones, slithering into his ears. He was positively drenched. And all Mortis suggested was a quick stop to the washroom. Yes, he certainly needed a good scrubbing, looked absurdly filthy.

He smiled, teeth like polished pink pearls. He marveled at the good doctor's ignorance. He grasped the form with both hands and read:

**Multiaxial Evaluation Report Form**

**Client name:** Benjamin Barker, alias Sweeney Todd  
**Physician name:** Richard Mortis, MD

**Axis I:** **Clinical Disorders, ****Other Conditions That May Be a Focus of Clinical Attention**

307.47 Nightmare Disorder (formerly Dream Anxiety Disorder)

**Axis II: Personality Disorders, ****Mental Retardation**

301.20 Schizoid Personality Disorder

**Axis III: General Medical Conditions**

None

**Axis IV: Psychosocial and Environmental Problems**

Check:

[x **Problems with primary support group:** Death of parents; history of alcoholism and abandoned client during childhood (1). Disruption of family by removal from the home; exiled to Australia under false charges.  
[x **Problems related to the social environment:** Inadequate social support; only social support from accomplice Nellie Lovett[ **Educational problems:** None  
[x **Occupational problems:** Incongruent work schedule; clientele do not leave after services provided by client.  
[x **Housing problems:** Discord with neighbor (Nellie Lovett).  
[ **Economic problems:** None  
[ **Problems with access to health care services:** Not applicable  
[x **Problems related to interaction with the legal system/crime:** Arrest, incarceration, exile to Australia, murder.  
[x **Other psychosocial and environmental problems:** Discord with caregivers of Fortune City.

**Axis V: Global Assessment of Functioning Scale**

Score: 15

Sweeney scowled. His flaws, written in scrolling cursive, were considerably accurate. And although the form was difficult to review, he decided it would be advantageous for a peaceful afterlife.

The threats and promises were empty now. He had the key to salvation between his curled fingers; he hoped it would be enough.

* * *

Mrs. Lovett was startled awake. The slamming door reverberated against her eardrums. She blankly stared at the ceiling, a massive swirling gray cloud. It reminded her of the dreary London sky. Or dust collecting on her previously sordid pies. And those pies certainly were disgusting, greasy, gritty, molting … oh, the descriptions were endless. But Mrs. Lovett always considered her cooking above average; lack of fresh ingredients was the problem. Of course Mr. Todd helped with … 

Her face soured; her eyebrows furrowed. It was the first time his name produced more than passing irritation.

"Just had to bloody well say Lucy," She huffed, rising to her bare feet. She patted down imaginary soot from her semi-translucent nightgown.

She trudged to the door, fumbled the key into the lock, and proceeded to stomp around the house. She entered the kitchen, noticing a masculine outline on the floured counter.

Mrs. Lovett triumphantly smirked. It was an uncomfortable place to doze on, certainly. She remembered the busier, bustling days. Her eyes would drift languidly; her body wracked with exhaustion. She would prop her elbows on the counter, newly painted face cradled in her cupped palms. She would drift. Her thoughts wandered. Sometimes she was walking along the shore, skipping as sea kissed sand. And her beloved was being playful, trying to catch her. And precious Toby was trailing slightly behind. Sometimes he clasped her hand, but more frequently he claimed her waist. His mouth would tenderly brush her prickled neck. But something always disrupted her fantasies: The pungent smell of sweat and blood, Toby hollering at the old beggar woman, or an unjustified poke in the ribs from her dearest.

Dearest, yes her _dearest_ would spend a few more sleepless nights on that counter. It was a reasonable punishment. And certainly more reasonable than any punishment the court might decide.

A faint yet audible click was heard. Mrs. Lovett gazed at the side door; then, her mouth went lax. The door made a haunting whine while opening. However, no friendly hand held the knob; it opened without force.

A folded, affixed note was visible. She cautiously strode toward the perplexing wonder and opened the sealed paper. The words were in stylistic red calligraphy:

_Dear Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett,_

_After some negotiation the court has allowed a privilege. The outside dining space and barber shop are permissible areas. However, the visual majesty of Fortune City is not. I will commence further negotiation with court officials. _

_Yours,_

_G. Reaping, attorney ad mortem_

Mrs. Lovett poked her head outside the open door. She glanced right. The deadly stairway loomed back. Her wide eyes traced every step. A tinkling bell was heard. And much like the kitchen door, the barber shop door opened without human touch.

Her eyes clasped to curious, narrow slits. The apprehension had faded. She bounded up the staircase, three steps at once, and skid to a halt at the entrance. Her slender fingers curled the doorway in anticipation. She peered inside and gasped.

The room was illuminated by some hidden, artificial daylight since the large window revealed more darkness. That was peculiar indeed, but certainly nothing to elicit an astonished gasp.

But the bespattered blood certainly was. It was seeping into the floorboards. It was a dribbling waterfall on the chair. It was splotchy and smeared across the window.

Mrs. Lovett twitched and unconsciously picked absent lint from her nightgown. She _needed_ it clean. She wildly scanned the room, eyes darting, and hands aching for proper materials. The pail and mop beckoned in a secluded corner; she dashed to them. A feverish surge propelled her body. She frantically mopped the floor. The murky water was instantly tainted with one mop plunge. But she still scrubbed furiously.

Her outlandish behavior caused an accidental bump against his work station. She caught the tipping dual photo frame with one hand. For a moment, she examined the woman and child. Lucy had such a serene beauty. Her hair was flowing, like windswept fields of wheat. Her eyes were brighter than sapphires; a perfect slender nose separating the twinkling orbs. She was flushed with a motherly glow. And the child was chubbier than most, but adorable nonetheless. And she rarely cried or fussed, such a good baby.

While Lucy was comparable to a flawless diamond, Nellie lacked her luster. She had an ethereal appearance. Her face was worn and hollow; her eyes dark and shadowed with years upon years of suffering. Her tangled twin buns were a rustic burnt umber.

Mrs. Lovett tossed the photo frame into the mop bucket. It made a loud plunk and splashed grimy water onto the floor. It was pleasantly symphonic to her ears.

The blood dried, unfortunately, and left permanent stains on the floor and chair. But Mrs. Lovett made considerable advancement with the window. She had pushed the trunk, that once-a contained da body of da king of da barbers, and stood on it. She gained more access to the highest splatter. A bar of soap was plopped into the blood-tinged bucket; she dipped a towel into the concoction and resumed scrubbing.

"Clean, clean, must be clean," Mrs. Lovett repeated the mantra.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' IN 'ERE?"

Mrs. Lovett stumbled, balance gone, and crashed to the floor. She looked to the source of the vicious outburst; she found an advancing, irate Sweeney Todd.

"You certainly put fear of the devil into me, Mr. Todd," She breathed, "An' I was only tidyin' the place up a bit. Think I was a stranger or somethin' with the way you was shoutin'."

He roughed grabbed her shoulders, yanking her body, "This is me shop, your place is in the bakehouse. Preferably in the oven."

She was standing, his fingers seizing her collarbones. But he hesitated there.

_Won't get too far by chokin' me, will you love?_ She wondered before speaking, "Oh, very humorous. I'll be out a 'ere soon enough. Answer me this though, you kill anybody?"

She inspected his stern features. Moist blood was etched into his chiseled face. She heavily sighed. _If he keeps this up_, she thought, _there's no hope in savin' either of our sorry souls_.

"I tried to anyway," He confessed, rather quickly much to her shock, "She was Mortis' assistant. She was threatenin' me. Tryin' to have knowledge of me in the office, in exchange for entrance to providence, or some such nonsense. So I cut her."

Mrs. Lovett frowned. Oh, certainly she was still cross with him. But certainly could not remain angry forever. He was a flawed man, and she wasn't exactly perfect either. However, the thought of a buxom seductress playing with him—it instantly transferred her annoyance.

"Well," She began, shoulders shrugged, "I'm sure the little hussy deserved it."

Sweeney blinked twice; his stony grip relaxed. She thought his eyes softened too.

"She did," He growled before adding a strained, "Thank you."

"No worries, love," She chirped, making an exit, "Now I best be out a your way. Have me own appointment with Thomas at three—"

She was yanked again, thunderously flopped into the barber chair.

"Mr. T?" She questioned, the anxiety rose to her throat. It was laboriously beating against her teeth and tongue. She saw glinting silver and began to sweat. He would slice her open yet again, and with a flick of a concealed lever her body would tumble below. _An' then, an' then, an' then_, she frantically though, _he'll grind me into a pie! An' I really will be finished!_

But he was not holding a razor. It was a silver curler.

"Mr. T?" She questioned a second time, thoroughly confused.

"You 'ave an appointment soon, yes?" He questioned, his voice flat and monotone, "Your hair, is a step 'bove a rat's nest, it's a rat's den." He rubbed a strand of hair between his thumb and middle finger. It made a sickly, scratching noise.

"Ah, thank you love," Mrs. Lovett sarcastically replied, slouching into the chair, "Your compliments is like angel wings they are, _feathery_ and _soft_."

"An' I will guarantee your hair will be feathery an' soft, Mrs. Lovett," He purred, gently caressing her stray tendrils. His head was now near her shoulder. His mouth wavering near her exposed ear, "Now love, let me pamper you."

Her body exploded with goose bumps; her cheeks burning hot. She turned to her shoulder and with hooded eyes explored his expression.

He smiled, a genuine one this time she was certain! Oh, what did it matter that he was a murderer? So what if he tried to murder her? So what if he thought of Lucy? It was an innocent slip, something she should have dismissed. And his unpredictability was intriguing. And the now caked blood was murderously delicious, and so was Sweeney Todd. She was rationalizing his every flaw.

He cupped her face with the free hand. His thumb stroked her waxen cheekbone. Oh, nothing mattered now! She hardly cared if some assistant hussy blood was smeared there, or anywhere.

"An' how can I pamper you, love?" She submissively whispered.

Sweeney chuckled, his hand dipping underneath her chin. She trembled, waiting but with little patience, for his coarse lips. She closed her eyes.

A jangling bell, and then the door swung open. Thomas Bertram Stone entered the barber shop bursting into smiles. Sweeney straightened and leapt from the chair. Mrs. Lovett was still entranced, face over her shoulder, eyes shut.

"Um, pardon the intrusion, Mr. Todd. But Mrs. Lovett has an appointment, as it is three o'clock." Thomas stammered, noticing he had interrupted something.

Mrs. Lovett popped one eye open, grumbled and briefly told Thomas she needed to be properly dressed, and left.

"Mr. Stone," Sweeney exhaled, a touch of annoyance creeping his tone, "You must descend from either Anthony Hope or Tobias Ragg."

* * *

Author's Note: Slightly longer chapter, hope you enjoy again as always. And for the life of me I can't remember in the movie if Sweeny Todd pulled on a hidden lever in the chair or pressed down on the foot rest to 'polish off' his victims. Also don't know if anyone will understand the little joke Mr. Todd makes at the end, but if you do kudos. You have my sense of humor. :D 

(1) Retrieved that little tid-bit from crimelibrary. com! And will continue to do so as the trail process unfolds.

Until next time, faithful ones.


	8. Chapter 8

"_Um, pardon the intrusion, Mr. Todd. But Mrs. Lovett has an appointment, as it is three o'clock." Thomas stammered, noticing he had interrupted something._

_Mrs. Lovett popped one eye open, grumbled and briefly told Thomas she needed to be properly dressed, and left._

"_Mr. Stone," Sweeney exhaled, a touch of annoyance creeping his tone, "You must descend from either Anthony Hope or Tobias Ragg."_

"Mr. Todd?" Thomas inquired, imaginary question marks clouding his pupils.

"Oh, nevermind," He replied, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

The ever exuberant Thomas Bertram Stone ignored the gesture. He glanced over the barber shop with glistening eyes. He whistled once, hands firmly inserted in his pockets. He spoke, as always, with unnecessary enthusiasm, "You must be happy to have access to the shop again, right Mr. Todd?"

"Happy?" Sweeney Todd guffawed, almost choking on the question, "Mr. Stone, nothin' happy ever happened in 'ere."

"But surely Lucy—" Thomas clasped a hand over his open mouth. It was evident his disclosure was not intended.

"My wife," He whispered, but his thoughts were muddled. He could remember almost everything about Lucy. She smelt of fresh lilacs; her voice was sugary. His senses were so acute and attuned; he visually painted pictures of her body. But something was missing. He reviewed the dreadful sequence. Mrs. Lovett lied, so he hurled the deceitful woman into the bake oven. Then Tobias, distrustful little imp, slit his throat with _his_ razor. He remembered kneeling on the pavement, his knees soaked from bloody torrents. He was holding something, or maybe someone? Sweeney struggled with the words, "Lucy, is she … is she dead?"

Thomas made a garbled combination of the words I, um, and ahum. He drummed his fingertips against an ashen cheek.

Sweeney frowned. This hesitation was bothersome; his infantile stuttering was even more infuriating. He seriously contemplated asking if Thomas would like a shave, and maybe that silver curler would cauterize the gashing wound. Then he could carve again. Carve. Cauterize. Carve. Cauterize. What a harmonious alliteration!

But, oh the agony, another interruption. Mrs. Lovett was calling; her voice surprisingly light and airy. She was ready, albeit quickly. And Thomas was mumbling an apology, excuse me please Mr. Todd blah-something-whine-someone-blah. He was already droning out his obnoxious voice; the closing door was barely an audible click.

Sweeney pressed the tip of his nose against the door window. He huffed; a foggy trail from his nostrils coated the pane. Mrs. Lovett, in a striking green gown, and Thomas walked amongst the endless darkness. The pair resembled leaping flames. She stopped, turned toward his shop and brightly waved.

He smirked. She certainly was a baffling wonder. He could harm that woman for all eternity; she would still crawl back, belly gathering dirt, grime, rat shit or any other foul substance. And yet, at certain times, he felt so little control _even_ when she was submissive!

Her nonchalant acceptance of his murder attempt was astounding. She expediently dismissed the manner, calling Miss Emma Balm a hussy. But more importantly, a hussy who deserved every papilla scrape. And suddenly Sweeney Todd felt calm. It was a rare tranquility, but nevertheless produced a sporadic bout of kindness. And her hair certainly felt like stiff corn husks. And resembled a rat den.

But Dr. Richard Mortis barley noticed his shadow. He would hardly notice her hair. Sweeney still felt strangely generous, maybe he would offer her a thorough scrub later.

And more disturbing yet, his thoughts of darling Lucy ebbed away.

* * *

"I never really much cared for silence, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett commented, glancing around for any flicker of color besides black, "Always made me so jittery. Are we headin' for that building there? Can't see anythin' but that."

"That building is the psychiatric office. Dr. Richard Mortis and his assistant Miss Emma Balm reside there. As for your visual deficits, Mr. Reaping will rectify the problem. At the very least, you will at least see _some_ of Fortune City before a final verdict." Thomas replied, deftly walking ahead. He pointed to imaginary buildings, waved to absent people.

"What is it like, Mr. Stone? Fortune City, I mean," She implored, grasping for any exquisite detail.

"Oh, its indescribable, truly," He childishly sighed, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, I'm sure dear," Mrs. Lovett grumbled, kicking perhaps a nonexistent stone, can, or some such street rubbish with her heel. "Can I ask you somethin'?" She questioned.

"Of course, Mrs. Lovett," Thomas answered, brightly smiling into the inky terrain.

"Maybe its none of me business, but how is it you got 'ere? You must be dead too, Mr. Stone. But why is it that you are _'ere_?" Those questions were burning, tauntingly dancing around her skull for days. And Thomas was a nice lad, gullible, and would always answer with a joyous smile and sparkling teeth.

Thomas made an abrupt stop; she nearly slammed into his back. He turned slowly, cautiously. His features were suddenly murky. He looked so pitifully small. He unclasped his cufflinks, pushing the sleeves to his elbows. Then, he presented his bare forearms.

It was brutal. Large, vertical scars like roots grew from his wrists. They were precisely traced over his veins.

"Oh, no. Mr. Stone you didn't," She raised a shaking hand to her trembling lips.

"July 17, 1983. Around nine-thirty in the morning. It was shortly after an appointment, Harvard Law. And my father; he wanted nothing more than a continuation. Stone men, always attorneys. But I had nothing special about me. That's what the dean said. I had perfect marks, was captain of the rugby team, and all that community service! I was lacking, had nothing worth remembering. Such a drab similarity to thousands of applicants! But he would rather tell me personally, since the Stone clan has, well _had_, been attending Harvard for generations. He thought it a nice gesture, rather than a letter. It seems like dad wanted the diploma, the proof, more than me. That's what I kept telling myself anyway, in the bathtub. With the little razor," Quite unexpectedly, Thomas was hysterical. His laughter produced streaming tears from wide, open eyes, "Oh, GOD that's funny! Razors! My first case, the murder weapon a razor! The suicide instrument a razor!"

Mrs. Lovett lost her ability to form words. What could she say? An empathetic, 'I'm sorry,' would be utterly pathetic. And 'I understand, love,' would be blatantly false. And a hearty laugh would be entirely inappropriate. Fortunately, Thomas continued, attempting to regain composure and professionalism.

"But, your question! Of course, I rambled on so much. Sorry about that, um well! Suicides are destined for servitude, neither above nor below but here. We thought to escape but only receive more of the same, that's our punishment," Thomas stumbled through his words; he spoke rapidly, "But it isn't all so terrible! Fortune City is _so_ beautiful and with enough case work here I can be an attorney. Just like Mr. Reaping," His voice was faraway, distant and dreaming.

"You'll make a fine attorney one day, Mr. Stone," Mrs. Lovett carefully commented.

"That's all I can hope for," He replied, a faint smirk fluttering across his mouth.

* * *

Dr. Richard Mortis was behind his desk; forms and papers evenly spread on the oak surface. He inspected each one, running two slender fingers over the words. And Miss Emma Balm was perched behind him. Her fuchsia acrylic nails made a striking contrast against his leather armchair. Her talons tightly gripped the fabric; her eyes were tiny, angry slits.

Mrs. Lovett was reclined on a, now blood-stained, couch. She gave a sinister smile to Emma; then she loudly, triumphantly clacked her heels together.

"Another impatient client, it would seem," Mortis exhaled, leafing through a folder marked 'Nellie Lovett.'

"Would you rather be somewhere else, Mrs. Lovett?" Emma questioned, her tone was colored an icy blue.

"Tell the truth dear," Mrs. Lovett began, "Mr. T promised me a proper wash," She ruffled her hair for emphasis, and added "Can hardly wait to have his hands in me hair _again_."

Emma Balm puckered her lips; it resembled a tight balloon knot.

"Well enough, Mrs. Lovett. I will be quick, more clients after you obviously. Now, what brings you to my office?" He asked; he completely missed the private altercation between the two women.

"Mr. Stone said this would be good for me case, but I was mortified. Well, until Mr. T said he would do it too. Then, suppose it wouldn't be so awful," Mrs. Lovett replied.

"Would that rectify your embarrassment, if Mr. Todd decides first?" Mortis clarified; he scribbled furiously into an open notepad. He did not even glance at her.

"Yes, gives me some relief it does," Mrs. Lovett replied.

"Would you say decisions are difficult to make, without assistance that is?"

"Always did have some trouble, but I never had an opportunity to have a choice. Only got to the sea once, when I was a lil' girl, with me rich Auntie. Never went back. I asked me dear Albert 'bout it once. 'Foolish,' he said, disregarded the idea as foolish! An' at least Mr. T would _appear_ to listen. An' tell you the truth, that's all I really needed." Mrs. Lovett pouted. That seaside wedding was so promising then. She relished in his words: Of course[I want to hear 'bout your dreams love!, Yes I do[treasure every word you say, me dear!, and Anythin' you say [will remain in me heart fo'ever!. Maybe she exaggerated his monotone affirmations a little, but it was nevertheless comforting.

"Did you ever question why Albert thought the idea was foolish?"

Mrs. Lovett clasped a hand over her chest. She expected a fluttering heartbeat against her fingertips. But then she realized the unique circumstances of Fortune City. She produced a shocked exclamation regardless, "Oh mercy no! I would never do anythin' like that."

"Would you question any idea from Sweeney Todd?" Emma Balm spat. Her spiked, bleach blonde hair was demonic. It accentuated her venom-infused question.

"No, I would never do such a thing," Mrs. Lovett smoothly stated, but her eyes danced with fiery passion.

"And why is that, Mrs. Lovett?" Emma continued.

"I wouldn't want to upset—" She was abruptly cut off by an expedient interjection.

"Making Mr. Todd _upset_ has little to do with it, Mrs. Lovett. He is quite an angry individual without your boisterous commentary. You were afraid to disagree. If you did, he would leave." Emma licked her painted lips with satisfaction.

"Oh, undoubtedly," Mortis responded, nodding his head once, "But, a bit too pushy Miss Balm. We are psychiatrists, not persecutors! Now then, Mrs. Lovett. Would you agree with this statement: I would do anything for Mr. Todd?"

"Yes, yes. I would do anythin' for him," Mrs. Lovett agreed.

"Ah, very well. And would you agree with this statement: I would do anything for Mr. Todd, regardless of the process or consequences?"

Mrs. Lovett was fidgeting. Her hands were scurrying, clearing away invisible dust. She picked imaginary lint between her fingers. She patted away absent flour clouds. Her dress was quickly inspected and prodded.

Miss Emma Balm made a disgusted face before speaking, "What are you doing?"

Dr. Richard Mortis raised his eyes to observe her behavior.

"Oh, just cleanin' off me dress. So filthy, damn thing. Gets awful filthy from that bakehouse." She feverishly responded, now thumping her clothing with open palms.

Emma raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Mortis coughed slightly and continued, "How long have you had this repetitive behavior, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Ah, ever since the shop re-opened. Since Mr. T became a barber again, I suppose. Oh but it was much worse! When I was alive, oh my, would pat down me dress hundreds of times a day. There now, spotless!" She smiled, glancing over her perfection.

"Does this repetition relieve any anxiety you may have?" He asked.

"Oh, yes. Just can hardly stand the thought of a ruined garment. What with all those customers! An' what would Mr. T think? He buys me such grand ones. We run a respectable business. What would anyone think, me all _bloody_," She emphasized, brushing more soot off her sleeves.

"Do you believe these thoughts and actions are excessive, Mrs. Lovett?" Mortis questioned. He was still focused on her.

"No, no. They aren't so bad like I said. When I was alive, ooh, would spend hours scrubbin', washin', an' pluckin'." She cooed, smoothing over the velvety fabric.

"Of course," He commented, furiously scribbling again.

"I would like to continue our previous conversation, if you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Lovett," Emma Balm sweetly encouraged; her teeth were tightly clenched.

"Whatever your pleasure, dear," Mrs. Lovett sighed. She could almost predict Mr. Todd would be introduced into the questioning too.

"Do you enjoy being alone, Mrs. Lovett?"

"No, I hate it. It was so hard when me poor Albert passed. Almost as hard as—" She longingly rubbed her stomach in small circles. Then, she shook her head, removing imaginary cobwebs and continued, "But then, Mr. T came. An' I thought we could get by reasonably enough. It wouldn't be much, but it would be somethin'."

"So you were very lonely when Albert passed?" Emma confirmed; a wicked twinge tugged at her closed lips.

"Yes, very," Mrs. Lovett repeated.

"And then Sweeney Todd came to your shop?" Emma restated.

"Yes, shortly after me Albert passed. 'Bout three months. But I don't see how—" She was intercepted again.

"Sweeney Todd was your replacement." Emma Balm hissed. Her tongue eagerly flicked like a venomous snake, "Albert Lovett was your source of care and support. I am certain times were rough in London, in 18-whatever. But not so hard you couldn't get by reasonably alone. You weren't a horrible baker, so why were your pies so awful? You were terrified, Mrs. Lovett. You were imprisoned in your fear, your shop, your pies. And you thought Mr. Todd would set you free."

Mrs. Lovett choked on a sob. She would have furiously wept, but Dr. Richard Mortis stood. He lightly held a piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger.

"Alright, Miss Balm that is sufficient. Does make me ponder though, perhaps you should have chose a different profession? Well, no matter. Your contract is here, in my office. Mrs. Lovett, this is your multiaxial evaluation report form," He wiggled the paper around.

Mrs. Lovett furrowed her eyebrows. She felt like a scraggly dog retrieving a bone. She rose from the couch and clasped the form. She expected Mortis to affectionately rub her hair and comment, 'Now, there's a good girl." But he only sat down.

She read the form carefully, silently:

**Multiaxial Evaluation Report Form**

**Client name:** Nellie Lovett  
**Physician name:** Richard Mortis, MD

**Axis I:** **Clinical Disorders, ****Other Conditions That May Be a Focus of Clinical Attention**

300.3 Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (With Poor Insight)

**Axis II: Personality Disorders, ****Mental Retardation**

301.6 Dependent Personality Disorder

**Axis III: General Medical Conditions**

None

**Axis IV: Psychosocial and Environmental Problems**

Check:

[x **Problems with primary support group:** Death of spouse; history of obesity (client states husband would 'eat to bloatation'), severe leprosy related to deteriorating environmental conditions (client states husband's 'leg half gave out with gout').  
[x **Problems related to the social environment:** Lived alone for three months after death of husband. Inadequate social support, accomplice Sweeney Todd provides little if any support or care to client.  
[ **Educational problems:** None  
[x **Occupational problems:** Stressful work schedule. Difficult work conditions. Job dissatisfaction.  
[x **Housing problems:** Discord with neighbor (Sweeney Todd). Unsafe neighborhood (Fleet Street, London).  
[x **Economic problems:** Extreme poverty. Inadequate finances. But situation was soon rectified with introduction of 'new, savory meat pies.'  
[ **Problems with access to health care services:** Not applicable  
[x **Problems related to interaction with the legal system/crime:** Murder.  
[ **Other psychosocial and environmental problems:** None.

**Axis V: Global Assessment of Functioning Scale**

Score: 53

Her eyes flickered from one statement to the next. Obsessive-Compulsive? Dependent?

"Am I insane then, Dr. Mortis?" She questioned, quite perplexed.

But Emma answered instead, her mocking laughter was hideous. "Aren't we all, _dear_?"

* * *

Author's note: Man, this chapter was SO fun to write! I hope you enjoyed, as always.

Until next time, faithful ones.


	9. Chapter 9

_Her eyes flickered from one statement to the next. Obsessive-Compulsive? Dependent?_

"_Am I insane then, Dr. Mortis?" She questioned, quite perplexed._

_But Emma answered instead, her mocking laughter was hideous. "Aren't we all, dear?"_

Mrs. Lovett nervously swallowed a saliva bolus. Emma Balm sauntered over; she stood, roughly around six feet with those precarious stilettos, and visually measured her body. She roughly snorted and snickered simultaneously.

"What a joke," She huffed in a dismissive tone.

"Beg your pardon, dear?" Mrs. Lovett crossly questioned. What was she getting at?

Emma Balm whispered in high soprano, making circles around her prey:

"Beg your pardon, what?  
You understand quite well,  
You vindictive, malicious slut,  
What I am about to tell.

How can I make this clear?  
While you wistfully call me _dear_,  
You dangle what I yearned  
For years upon years!

But why worry now?  
What have I to fear?  
You, ha-ha, a withered widow,  
Nothing but a silly cow!  
And I will take him yet!  
Look at you, wandering by the sea  
A brainless cod, caught in your net.

But oh look at me, a vibrant twenty-three!  
Oh glance my way, I would best you any day!  
My locks so fair so fine,  
Yours are putrid, filthy with London grime.  
My curves so perfect and divine,  
And despite jealous words, they _are_ all mine.

Why would he remain with you?  
What more could you do?  
It is a laughable scene, quite true,  
But let me paint a more rosy hue,  
An afterlife without you, that's a better view."

Mrs. Lovett burned with rage; her cheeks were stained a brilliant red. She feverishly whispered back:

"Oh my dear, you are in no position to make a threat,  
That much I know, how much you will regret  
Any ill statement you make  
So shut that putrid mouth, for your sake.

You are vain, that much is plain,  
Perhaps even bordering insane,  
If you think Mr. T will favor your claim.  
From what I recall, you were quite the bane  
An' I can boldly proclaim, you have nothing to gain.

You may have youth, that much I can attest  
But listen close you obnoxious pest  
We have _both_ been put to rest  
An' have _no_ life _no_ zest  
So you cannot decide who is best!

Call me names if you must, silly girl  
An' proceed to make fancy twirls,  
For you cannot hide, your tainted soul  
An' it certainly is not white as pearls.

Your beauty may surpass mine,  
But look around you!  
Even 'ere you notice:  
The drenched eyes, the shadowed faces,  
We all hollow with time.  
But a true woman can make darkness shine."

Emma was startled, speechless. She attempted a protest but was roughly interjected.

"Ladies, ladies!" Dr. Richard Mortis began, firmly tapping a fountain pen against his desk, "I do have other clients you realize. Mrs. Lovett, the waiting room, _please_!" He urgently waved both hands, ushering her to the door.

Perhaps, just perhaps mind you, Dr. Richard Mortis was not entirely unaware. Mrs. Lovett decided the doctor had selective hearing. He must have listened to countless patients per day; she was certain he would filter through necessities only. And by chance, he had caught that little altercation. Or perhaps he knew the vicious words were brewing the entire session. Could he be pretending? Could he assume the identity of an ignorant bumpkin? She was certain; she was certain it was false. And his interruption proved it too. His annoyance was openly displayed; his facade was removed.

* * *

Sweeney Todd loudly whistled, resuming the cleaning Mrs. Lovett was so intent on. He chirped a little ditty; the same melody Judge Turpin first heard while his cheek was lathered. He rubbed the window with a small washcloth. He stretched up higher, still vigorously washing.

Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett. Her name pounded against his temples; it kept tempo with his swabbing strokes. She was suddenly, unexpectedly in his thoughts. It was slightly unsettling, but he could think of little else. It must have been the dress, he concluded. It was the _color_ that had him transfixed, not _her_.

But then he sighed.

He remembered the tailor shop. It was the first time he ventured out with her since Pirelli's sham barber contest. She was excited, surprisingly less pale than usual. She happily bounced about, sorely distinctive in the bleak London streets. He was amused by her ardent desire for a new garment—but that was a woman for you. But it was frightening too. She rambled on about evening gowns! Evening gowns, mind you! Why did she need anything like that? It would draw unnecessary attention, he mentioned. But she convinced him otherwise. It would draw unnecessary attention _not_ to lavish oneself, she corrected. One fancy dress couldn't possibly matter. He couldn't fathom, at the time, one would be terribly insufficient.

She scurried amongst yards of fabric. Cotton. Silk. Velvet. Charmeuse. She cooed over each one. Of course, she had to choose something more extravagant, more expensive. She held a creamery blue against her bodice. Her voice piped for an opinion.

His face curdled; she childishly pouted. What was the matter, she inquired. She impatiently tapped her foot. She adored the choice, it was evident. It probably reminded her of crystal, clear skies by the sea—or some such nonsense. But he abhorred the fabric. It would awfully blend into her waxen flesh. And if he had to look on her, he would rather look on her in something reasonably decent.

He defiantly tapped on a jade velvet. She pondered for a moment. A singular slender finger rested on her high cheekbone. She shrugged. If that's what you prefer, she exhaled. And her first choice was flopped onto a pile, suddenly forgotten.

That was the first time she wore the dress, when she walked with Thomas.

And she certainly was striking, beautiful even. But Sweeney was still convinced the dress was only an enhancement factor. Besides, the fabric was superb. So would it not be assumed the dress would be conceptually perfect also? She had nothing to do with this. It was just the dress, wasn't it?

The brass bell jangled his puzzled thoughts. And there she stood; the source of his confusion. Her hair was still a proverbial shit.

"Ugh," She huffed, clearly upset, "She certainly is a rotten thing."

"Ah-ha, Miss Balm then?" He briefly questioned. He jumped off the trunk, lightly landed and waltzed to her stiffened form.

"Ooh, she burns me right through, Mr. T," Mrs. Lovett responded with increasing irritation, "You couldn't imagine the things she was sayin'."

"Well, enlighten me," Sweeney stated, sincerely interested. He held out an open hand.

She quizzically stared at his out-stretched palm. Then, she traced his face. She was searching for something, and he decided to provide an answer.

"Promised you a wash, didn't I?" He inquired, opting to grasp her hand instead, "So, say your troubles an' I'll scrub 'em out."

He gracefully attempted to bring her to the chair. But it was rushed, hurried. And Sweeney eventually flung Mrs. Lovett into his torture device. Some customs would always remain, he mused. He muttered a clipped apology.

"S'alright dear," Her accepting voice wavered.

He prepared the white china basin, filling it with hot teapot water on a rolling cart. A rosy soap bar, flowery perfume, and various natural oils were perfectly spread on his station. There was a comb, brush, pair of scissors and hot curler—just off the stove!—neatly placed on a white washcloth. A razor was concealed in his holster.

He slightly reclined the chair. She sharply gasped.

"Thought you were done for, eh?" Sweeney smirked, rolling the cart underneath her tangled tresses. He proceeded to pluck out hundreds of bobby pins with dexterity and ease. "No worries, me pet. It reclines manually, with me pullin' on the back. But don't push on the footrest. Then we'll _both_ be finished."

A startled laugh escaped her open mouth, and then she questioned him, "Do you really want to know 'bout what happened?"

He quickly dunked her hair into the warm water. He lathered the soap and oils into her scalp before speaking, "You've asked me questions like this before," He mused.

"Well, you weren't really payin' any attention when I was talkin' 'bout the sea," She grumbled, childishly slumping down.

He immediately pulled her back, and continued scrubbing her roots. He addressed her statement succinctly, "I was listenin' to you."

"Oh?" She exclaimed, "Then what was I sayin' 'bout the sea?"

"Somethin' 'bout the judge," He teased.

"Mr. T!" She was exasperated now, "I dunno why I bother! Talkin' to you is like talkin' to someone what gone deaf, dumb, _and_ blind!"

He expediently rinsed her locks, and was now proceeding to towel-dry. "Then why do you bother, Mrs. Lovett?" He was still toying with her.

"Mr. Todd, I told you—" She began, quite listless.

But Sweeney interjected, "I like the sound of me own voice? That must be it."

"I most certainly do not! I ain't that vain. Not like that damned Emma Balm," She huffed.

Ah, there. He had succeeded; she was speaking freely about that intrusive assistant. He dabbed some oil between the comb; then he carefully worked on her knots. "She certainly is vain," He agreed, while yanking a particularly nasty one.

She winced, but made no sound of discomfort, "She was goin' on and on 'bout herself. How beautiful she was, how full of youth, how pretty her hair was, you know all that rubbish. Then, she started harpin' 'bout me!"

"Oh, really? What did she say?" He inquired.

"She likened me to a cow an' fish, she did," Mrs. Lovett snarled, obviously aggravated.

"My, how clever," Sweeney sarcastically replied. He twirled the comb into his back pocket; then, he gently brushed a few stray tangles.

"How do you mean, dear?" Mrs. Lovett wondered aloud.

"What with you lovin' the sea an' all. Very clever you should be likened to a fish," He clarified.

Mrs. Lovett snorted, "Yes, well. Still thinks 'bout nothin' but you. She wants to snatch you away, some such nonsense like that."

"I find that difficult to believe," Sweeney blandly stated. He rolled strands of her hair through the curler. He resumed speaking, "All she did was threaten me."

"Maybe she's givin' you another chance, love," She teased, mocking him.

"Mmm," Sweeney grunted; he generously applied perfume to her tendrils. He shoved a small mirror into her hands. "There," He briefly stated.

She slowly raised the hand mirror to her face; she gasped, from surprise this time not fear. She gently fondled her curls and breathed, "Its like silk, don't think I ever had me hair feel like that."

"It is a vast improvement," Sweeney murmured, cradling her locks. He was admiring a true masterpiece. He lifted a few strands to his curious nostrils. He inhaled. It was a most distinctive, defiant smell: Lilac.

She shivered; her exposed flesh erupted into tiny bumps. He scanned her bare shoulders, trailing down to a plunging bodice. He was briefly fixated on her heaving chest. Her nipples made small bumps on the fabric …

He whirled around the chair, almost knocking over the cart. His hands impaled her arms; his fingers bit her armpits. He intently stared into her dark eyes.

"You aren't wearin' a corset," He confirmed, intending for the words to be harsh. However, his voice was a pained, hungry whisper.

"No, I'm not," She confessed, her eyelids languidly drooped, "How do you suppose I got ready so quick-like?" She licked her parched lips, waiting. Then, she added, "No time for knickers either."

That statement demanded evidence. He kneeled before her, one hand firmly planted on her arm. The other began a torturous journey. Her laced boots were brushed over; he lightly skipped over the laces. His fingers crawled over a thin, silky fabric. It was probably the red and black striped stocking. She had bought plenty of other colors. Gray. Black. White. An absurd navy blue. However, she insisted on wearing the former. They were special, she announced one day, because she wore them the day he came back. But the fabric stopped at her knee. He was pushing against naked flesh now.

His fingers curled her inner thigh. She shuddered; her mouth lightly quivered.

"No, no you aren't," He confirmed. He roughly pressed against her drenched sex.

She leaned forward; a faint moan trickled off her lips, landing deliciously close to his ear.

_What are you doin' Benjamin Barker? What are you doin' Sweeney Todd? _His thoughts incessantly buzzed. But he didn't have an answer. He felt her skin; it was thick, hot. He smelt her desire: musky, with a trace of lilac. It was instinct for her; It was impulse for him. It was nothing more, he decided.

His middle finger was nestled underneath her clitoris. He pressed up; and her hips bucked forward. He grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It thumped like a tiny heart. She squirmed, making some nonverbal protest. But he ignored her fidgeting.

She was slouching down again; her legs spread very wide. And Sweeney couldn't conceal the wicked smirk tickling his mouth.

"Mr. T," She begged, her voice was so pitifully small; it was almost captivating.

"What?" He grumbled, pinching her hard. It produced a struggled whine.

"Mr. T," She pleaded again, her thighs trembled.

"Quiet," He ordered, twisting her throbbing clitoris. She contained a muffled whimper.

He was satisfied with her quick obedience. She would never disagree with him; she would not dare displease him. And that deserved a small reward.

He deftly inserted two fingers into her; his thumb pressed circles into her hard clitoris. Her mouth quivered; her teeth bit her plump bottom lip. But she remained silent. His fingers rocked, pushed. He moved quicker, rubbing her slick sex. She had ceased squirming and wiggling about; her hips swayed to his frenzied rhythm.

_Why are you doin' this? Should you be doin' this?_ His mind was relentless. It constantly prodded and probed. He needed her silent, because his thoughts would not cease.

He stopped working her; but her body protested. She tightened; it was a desperate attempt to keep his fingers inside. She panted loudly; her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. Her mouth opened, but she clasped it shut quickly, remembering.

"That's right, me pet," He hissed, teasing her clitoris again, "Stay nice an' quiet."

She was battling with throaty groans, feverishly rolling her head. He rubbed deeper, curling his fingers. His nails scrapped her tender, raw flesh.

She was thoroughly soaked; his fingers were thickly coated in her yearning. But he stroked faster, brutally.

Then, a loud cry, an indecent cry shattered his solitude. Her verbalization of ultimate pleasure made him rigid. His erection painfully brushed against his pants.

But it wasn't such a horrendous problem, he thought.

Her shuddering breaths, her closed eyes, her dewy flesh, her dark aroma.

It was her surrender. And that was a delicious excuse for his unsettling questions.

* * *

Author's Note: Um, yeah. They finally _did_ something, ha ha. It always makes me nervous to write chapters like this. For a few reasons, 1) Fear of the characters getting too out of character, 2) Fear of things being too smutty and not tasteful, and 3) Fear of fangirls(boys too I suppose!) that would rather be in Mrs. Lovett's place. But, face your fears I say! And go along with your gut! Because I think this sexual frustration has been brewing for way too long. A little needed to come out (um, HA bad pun). And maybe Sweeney is a little out of character, but if you notice the last few sentences he isn't so much. He's trying to rationalize, just like Mrs. Lovett. Aw, cute. Maybe they really are meant for each other ;) … and as for Mrs. Lovett; don't start labeling her as lucky yet. There are more chapters to come after all.

Until next time, faithful ones.

Ps. I bet the hits are going to skyrocket on this chapter, lol.


	10. Chapter 10

_But it wasn't such a horrendous problem, he thought._

_Her shuddering breaths, her closed eyes, her dewy flesh, her dark aroma._

_It was her surrender. And that was a delicious excuse for his unsettling questions._

What was he doing? It was an impulse, and nothing more.

Why was he doing this? Because he could; because he savored her compliance.

Should he be doing this? Oh, did that really matter so much now? They were dead. And if the court made an objection to his actions? He would lie. He would deny. It was just an experiment, just to see if he _could_.

He realized the praised psychiatrist, Dr. Richard Mortis, must have been a quack. Little if any desire for carnal knowledge? Right now, that diagnosis was painfully incorrect. He cared for little _but_ carnal knowledge of Mrs. Lovett.

He slowly removed his fingers and stood. Her eyes were glazed; her face and chest stained a brilliant crimson. He forcefully lifted her, and her breath caught abnormally.

He dragged her drowsy body, and pushed her forward. Her legs buckled, but she wobbled ahead. They stood before the broken mirror. His body was hidden behind her billowing dress; he was tightly pressed against her back.

Sweeney ran quick fingers through her russet curls; the motion exposed her ashen neck. His aching lips rest there. It was such a delicate brush, an innocent touch. It was something unaccustomed to his partner, for she shook. And her movements reverberated through him, creating a searing friction. Their eyes intertwined, exotically danced in the spider web cracks.

"Undress," He commanded into her pale flesh. His order elicited another faint tremor. And his satisfied smile pressed against her thin neck.

But her hands remained defiant. Then, she spoke concisely, succinctly.

"No."

It was remarkable. A single word, a brief mutter could disrupt everything! Benjamin Barker, the gentleman, would have accepted her rejection. A gentleman should never force his passions onto a lady. But Sweeney Todd was not a gentleman. And Mrs. Lovett was certainly not an innocent lady. If this was a coy imitation, he found it poor and irksome.

"Why?" He growled; his hands coiled her shoulders.

"It ain't pretty," She whispered, turning her head away, "Just bundle me dress up, and take me that way, from behind."

The shock was nearly overwhelming. What was this: a shameful gesture from a shameless woman? Or was she embarrassed? She was not 'a slip of a thing' anymore, that was true. But he always thought her very confident and secure. Her behavior was a contradiction and extremely unsettling. Perhaps, some reassurance was needed. But Sweeney Todd rarely practiced comfort and encouragement; the remainders of those qualities were left in a dark prison cell. He made an earnest, but mediocre, effort.

"Listen, love," He began, attempting to sound sincere, "There was women in Australia, and they _really_ weren't worth lookin' on—men have needs tho'. But you aren't anythin' like them. An' I wouldn't think of you that way."

"That's not what I mean," Her voice was cracking, and pained, "You can't see me, I won't let you, Mr. Todd."

Her answer was a dreadful mistake.

His eyes twitched, pounded with rage. His fingers began shredding her buttons. Each clicked loudly against his nails, ricocheting off the floorboards. The airborne threads twirled and jumped, like blades of grass.

She struggled, slithering away. But his precious friend, the silver razor, was pressed against her throat. And she was motionless. He resumed his work, making brilliant emerald confetti.

"Mr. Todd," She pleaded, adding a wild scream, "You bought me this dress!"

"You have others," was his terse reply. A concealed razor was revealed from the second holster. He sliced the fabric with expertise. He made quick, striding cuts.

And she was beautiful to bare in minutes.

His eyes were greedy, absorbing her curves and hollows. She certainly was lithe. Her collarbones and ribcage were prominent; the skin there very taught, almost breaking. Her breasts were still supple, only slightly stretched from age. But there was a problem. Her arms were laced around her waist and hips. She was hiding something.

"Open your arms," He instructed, both razors now compressing her carotid arteries.

"Please, Mr. Todd," She whimpered, cradling her body. But he indented her flesh deeper; one more push and blood would freely surge and trickle.

Her defeated arms unraveled and wilted. Her eyes were listless and blank, reflecting nothing. And he relished her emotional famine.

Her abdomen was convex, with narrow but prominent hips.

His razors crashed against the floor, making undulating circles.

He was captivated, lost in her brutally wounded flesh. The gashes were serrated, coarse and u-shaped. The careless lesions began above her navel and rained below her public bone. They were poorly sewn with midnight colored thread.

"What-what is this?" His voice faltered, his fingers traced the abrasive wounds.

She winced, and placed trembling hands over his inquisitive fingers. Her voice regained some semblance of strength, "Queen Victoria birthed her lads with some help you know, anesthetics I think. Made the labor pains tolerable. But me dear Albert, he was a good Christian man. All women must endure the pain, thanks to the sins of Eve. So I could have none of that fancy stuff. I won't bother you with the pain, Mr. T but it was blindin' and takin' far too long. Four days an' four nights of it. Then Albert and the midwife, decides to open me up," Her voice caught, and tears traced her cheekbones, "A boy, an' then another! That's why I have two marks 'ere. One for me lil' Thomas. The other for me lil' Peter. But-but they weren't cryin'. They weren't movin'. All blue and black they was, so still. Midwife said they were wrapped real tight around me cord, choked the life right out of 'em."

Sweeney was stunned in silence; he tightly embraced the frail, damaged woman. His face was buried in her fragrant hair.

"Albert wouldn't touch me, let alone look at me after that. People was so surprised the job hadn't done me in, what with this butchery. Could have sewn meself up better, I'm sure! Times got worse a course. Couldn't have a proper burial for me darlin' boys. Church wouldn't allow it. They wasn't baptized. Albert was so ashamed. I dunno where they were put to rest, never told me. Business got so bad then, for both of us. Then, me poor Albert—left me too, but at least he has a proper headstone."

She crumpled, flailing to the ground as sobs wrecked her body. Sweeney gently cradled her, slowly rocking her collapsed form.

"At least you had happiness, even if it was fleetin'!" She cried, soaking his shirt with tears, "Pretty lil' Johanna. You felt her, held her as she held back. I had nothin', nothin'!"

Her howling was torturous, inhuman. She convulsed with each broken wail, it was draining. The hours passed with unrelenting turmoil, offering little reprieve. But then, finally, exhaustion lulled her to slumber.

Sweeney Todd could offer her nothing. No kind words. No loving caress.

Her face was so wet, drenched with agony. And his cheeks were barren, dry.

Her distressed breaths crashed against his flesh, each heave made horrid shivers twist his attuned nerves. She was having a nightmare, which was evident enough. But his thoughts were screeching, clawing his ventricles. The itching sensation was intolerable. He craved any, no matter how miniscule, release.

It was more for his benefit, those baritone murmurs—but if her pained, contorted features diminished his grin would be difficult to suppress:

"Dear woman, this defeated embrace  
I am afraid cannot erase  
Your torment, your agony, your sorrow.  
So please, forgive a heart gone hollow.

I understand, I know all too well,  
Of a time, a place such happiness did dwell.  
Oh, love now I see your strife,  
All those ridiculous plans for our life.  
Your inclusion, you and me  
Together, forever beside a clear sea.

You wanted a fresh, sparklin' start,  
An' of course I was a part  
Of that captivatin' dream.  
But things collapse, nothin' more seen  
But strands of time, pathetic little seams  
Of a silly somethin' that could have been.

It is harsh, oh so very cruel an' mean  
What a morose page, a defeated chapter  
But love, our souls are tainted an' unclean  
An' what will become of you, me, our 'ereafter?

But do not fear, do not fret,  
There must be some faith yet,  
We are destined above or below  
But this guarantee is certain:  
Together we will go."

* * *

Mrs. Lovett was being roused, gently at first. But then, she heard shouting. Someone was panicking, sounding awfully whiny and strained. 

It couldn't be anyone else but a certain strung-out assistant.

And her assumption was indeed correct. Thomas Bertram Stone buzzed about her, face marked with apprehension and worry.

"Mrs. Lovett! Hurry! Hurry! Wake up!" He exclaimed, shaking her wildly.

"What is all this, Mr. Stone? What's happened?" She questioned, slowly rising, "No need to poke an' prod, dear."

"Oh, get out of bed would you! We're going to be late!" He was parading through her closet, tossing a black dress onto the sheets. The bedding puffed with dust upon impact.

_Bed?_ Mrs. Lovett was puzzled, _What am I doin' 'ere? I was in the shop with Mr. T, an' he was holdin' me …_

She silently sniveled. The other day certainly was hectic, erratic even. The extremes of delightful pleasure and disabling pain were too exhausting, too confusing, too much. It was a nightmare, it had to be an awful one! Mr. Todd would never switch from sensuous to sadistic so quickly, it was impossible. Mrs. Lovett conjured several excuses, but she was not convinced. And her nakedness beneath thick sheets confirmed the reality of yesterday.

Thomas tossed more clothing onto her prone form; he was hopping around, like a nervous rabbit, scurrying in all directions.

"All right, all right dear," She huffed, sitting and covering her body with the sheet. "Turn around then. I'll just slip me stockings, shoes, an' dress on if we need to go so fast. An' where is it we need to go, anyhow?"

"Fortune City Courthouse, of course. Your trial, Mrs. Lovett. Your trial is today!" Thomas whined, fidgeting as he turned away.

"What?! Why didn't you tell me sooner?" She hissed, frantically scrambling with gray moth-eaten stockings.

"Miss Emma Balm, told you yesterday! She said, 'Leave it to me Mr. Stone, I will explain the entire trial procedure to Mrs. Lovett.' What a relief, I thought! She is so responsible, I admire her truly." Thomas rambled, ritually peeking at a wristwatch.

Mrs. Lovett grumbled, shoving her feet into untied boots, "That conivin', intolerable, no good, vicious, vain, sorry excuse, bag o' bones bitc—"

"Mrs. Lovett!" Thomas gasped, sounding incredibly hurt, "Miss Emma Balm is a respectable professional!"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Lovett sarcastically mumbled, "An' I'm pure as white snow."

"I really wish you wouldn't poke fun at her, or anyone else. She is here for a reason, just like me, Miss Daver, or Dr. Mortis." Thomas retorted, quite serious.

"A suicide too then, that is too bad, Mr. Stone," She stated, stepping into the dark dress.

"Yes, it really was an awful suicide," He quietly commented.

"Too bad she went through with it," She continued, buttoning and lacing up the back.

"Yes," Thomas solemnly said.

"Cause then she wouldn't be 'ere makin' me miserable," Mrs. Lovett added, satisfied and smoothing out the fabric.

"Oh really now! That was not called for, Mrs. Lovett," Thomas huffed, expediently turning around. His forehead was furrowed in deep creases; he was clearly upset.

A horrible realization dawned on her then, she spoke the words with increasing disgust, "Mr. Stone, don't tell me you fancy that-that thing?"

Thomas was fumbling with words; his cheeks were lightly flushed, "Well, no. Not like that. Certainly not the way you would think—it is purely a professional adoration, er admiration! But, irregardless her suicide is nothing to joke about, everything is so very personal. So very awful."

Her interest was momentarily peaked, "What happened to her then?"

"Oh, I really shouldn't say. That would be breaking confidentiality. And the more important matter is your case! Miss Emma Balm will make an appearance, certainly. You can ask her at the courthouse if you wish," Thomas was making hurried, waving gestures with his hands.

And Mrs. Lovett could hardly contain her anticipation to see Miss Emma Balm, _again_.

* * *

The Fortune City Courthouse was a massive, architectural wonder. It was constructed of alabaster marble, with several spiraling columns. The most prominent features were statues of cloaked skeletons wielding large scythes. 

But while the building was quite aesthetic, the interior was rather drab. It was only a long straight hallway, with thousands upon thousands of doors. Each one was the same, save for a brilliant golden roman numeral. Thomas mentioned how fortunate they were, their door was XV. The walk would be effortless, barely a skip away.

And so it was, for he was already turning a handle with a looming fifteen staring back.

The room was essentially empty, except for three tables, a few chairs, a bench, and one person. Well, of course _if_ you could call him a person.

George Reaping produced a curt wave and motioned for Mrs. Lovett and Thomas. They both sat down quickly while the attorney stood, waiting for something or perhaps someone.

"Have you been enjoying your time here, Mrs. Lovett?" Reaping asked, engaging in small, petty chatter.

"Oh, of course," She lied, "Been such a lovely time."

"Excellent," Reaping answered, barely listening or detecting her deception. His attention was diverted as the door swung open.

A woman with long, thick burgundy hair entered the room. Her face was punctured with ashen shadows; her lips were drawn in a thin, tight line. Only her aquamarine eyes were animated. She strode to the opposite table, crashing a leather briefcase onto the surface.

"George Reaping," She affirmed, not glancing in his direction, "A pleasure as always."

"Yes, of course! I could not imagine a more suited opponent than you, Georgiana Reaping," He beamed, amber eyes sparkling.

"WHAT?" Mrs. Lovett exploded, yanking on his tailored suit, "You're related to her?"

Thomas placed a cautious hand on her shoulder, he whispered with emphasis, "That's his _wife_."

* * *

Author's Note: And so it is done, the next chapter anyway. Though I do fear this may be the last one for a little while, seeing as school starts fresh tomorrow and I have a whopping 17 credits in Nursing and Psychology classes. But do not fret, my little pets, I will update yet, though it may take some time, I will not forget your support while I type away on tedious college reports :P 

Until next time, faithful ones.


	11. Chapter 11

"_Yes, of course! I could not imagine a more suited opponent than you, Georgiana Reaping," He beamed, amber eyes sparkling._

"_WHAT?" Mrs. Lovett exploded, yanking on his tailored suit, "You're related to her?"_

_Thomas placed a cautious hand on her shoulder, he whispered with emphasis, "That's his wife."_

Mrs. Nellie Lovett was brought up as a woman of principle. Aunt Nettie, by her seaside abode, taught her the qualities of a lady. Never raise your voice above an airy whisper. Do not speak unless spoken to first. Place the soup spoon here. Place the salad fork there. Do not slurp your tea, dear. You are not a piglet at a trough. A lady does not hike her skirt; it is an offensive gesture. It is an invitation for immoral behavior; behavior that is only acceptable between a gentleman and his wife. And behavior that is only necessary for increasing a family. And furthermore, behavior that only a gentleman initiates.

But a one-time lecture barely scratched a mark on her unconscious. And soon her rich aunt was deafened by waves and ca-cawing seagulls.

"His wife!" Mrs. Lovett hissed, pulling George Reaping down to a squat.

"Is there a problem, Mrs. Lovett?" Reaping questioned, still fixated on his wife.

"A problem! Mr. Reaping, sayin' I'm havin' a _problem_ is an understatement," She roughly grabbed his face with both hands. She twisted his neck; an echoing crackle was produced. Her next words were snarled, "Keep your dick where it belongs, an' don't fuck this up."

That haphazard lesson amidst salty breezes was but a mere, insignificant flutter.

George Reaping stiffened. His features were stoic; his gaze could have split diamonds.

Thomas Bertram Stone impatiently tapped on her shoulder. Oh, what an annoyance he was becoming, quite the little interrupter!

"Mrs. Lovett," The flustered assistant began, "Rise for the judge."

Mrs. Lovett blinked once, then twice. Her heightened rage and irritation was the central focus; she had eliminated any external stimuli. And in that fury she failed to acknowledge a most looming presence.

Her reaction was not quick enough; Thomas hoisted her, trembling hands still firmly placed on her waist. Perhaps, the judge was truly so dominant that poor Thomas was paralyzed with fear. Or perhaps, he was restraining her from tenderizing Reaping. He certainly would make a rather nice(1) pie!

The judge had no name. Or rather he did not announce one. Nor did anyone else announce him. The man had a traditional black gown, with similar hair. But his face was cherubic, dusted a light rose. And his eyes were a brilliant azure; his pupils drifted like clouds across the room.

"You may be seated," He announced, claiming the front table and sitting down.

George Reaping, however, leaned against his table. But the judge made no protest.

"Opening statements, Georgiana Reaping proceed," The judge briskly stated.

"Thank you, your honor," She tersely replied and stood, "I have plentiful evidence and witness testimony that Mrs. Nellie Lovett deserves nothing less than an afterlife below Fortune City."

George Reaping shifted his stance, a mocking laughter pressed against his teeth, "And I, of course, believe Mrs. Nellie Lovett deserves nothing more than an afterlife above Fortune City. I too have plentiful evidence and witness testimony to support this case."

The judge ignored his outburst, and turned focus once more to Georgiana Reaping, "You may continue, Mrs. Reaping."

"I would like to call my first witness to the stand, a woman more commonly known as 'Aunt Nettie.'" Georgiana Reaping declared; but her eyes were transfixed on the empty bench.

And little by little, gelatinous molecule by gelatinous molecule, a plump woman with curly red hair materialized. She was perfectly poised, back straight, knees bent, and feet together. She quietly cleared her throat, raising a spotless handkerchief to her tiny mouth.

Mrs. Lovett uttered a startled gasp; her mind was vacant. She was shocked.

Georgiana addressed her witness, "State your position in relation to Fortune City, please."

"Above Fortune City, of course. And may I add that it is so _dreadful_ that little Nellie even has to be here, in such an awful predicament no less!" Aunt Nettie replied in a very haughty, bellowing tone.

"Yes, dreadful certainly," Georgiana quickly dismissed the response. She rebounded with a question, "Do you remember when Nellie visited you?"

"Yes, it was August Bank Holiday. She was parading around, hiking up her skirt to let the water lap those bare legs!" Here Aunt Nettie raised the handkerchief to cover her gapping mouth, "Well, I never saw such inappropriate behavior!" She exclaimed.

"Did you reinforce appropriate behavior?"

"Yes, of course! It was my duty, as her family. I had to teach her something valuable."

"And did she listen to you?" Georgiana continued.

"Well, I thought she did. But of course she is sitting right there," Nettie pointed a parchment-colored, gloved finger at Mrs. Lovett.

"Objection!" George Reaping chimed, "How can my client expect to retain valuable information in _one_ day? It is impossible, improbable."

"She would have _if_ she listened," Georgiana snapped.

"Repetition, Mrs. Reaping! Repetition is the crucial component to memory retention."

"Perhaps you would have been better suited for psychology, Mr. Reaping."

It was a bickering match. Georgiana barked, and George smoothly challenged. The judge did not shout for order; he made absolutely no motion toward stopping the quarreling.

Mrs. Lovett thought the whole ordeal absurd, positively ridiculous. The corners of her mouth twitched. Her veins pulsated; they made a terrible scratching sensation against her waxen flesh. They were beyond acting immature—they _were_ children.

Her resolve snapped like a ricocheting whip.

"Excuse me!" She loudly interjected, "Thought this was me trial, not a bloody shoutin' tourney. Now, get to the matter—"

Her conclusion was muffled; it sounded like 'ampf hawnd.' Thomas slapped his palm over her mouth. She seriously contemplated cannibalism.

Georgiana ceased her yammering. A quirky smile pulled her lips. George Reaping burned into Thomas.

"Mrs. Lovett, were you not familiarized with our court system?" The judge quizzed.

Thomas indented her cheek with his fingers. She shook her head 'no.'

"That was to be _your_ responsibility," George Reaping silently hissed at Thomas.

"Miss Emma Balm reassured me—" He whimpered but was quickly silenced.

"I will rectify this so we can precede," The judge announced, "Mrs. Lovett, do not speak unless I address you. Is that understood?"

Mrs. Lovett nodded 'yes.' Thomas slowly unhooked his shaking fingers; she subdued a wicked snarl. How was she expected to defend her actions? Why was her voice suddenly so insignificant? This was _her_ trail, wasn't it? The crimes. The blood. The desire. Was it all misplaced, omitted?

Georgiana cleared her throat, "Please excuse the interruption, Nettie. I would like to resume, if that is permissible."

"Most certainly. It always was like Nellie to make a commotion," She puffed.

"Do you remember her childhood? What was Nellie like as a child?"

"She certainly was a scrawny thing. A twig had more appeal. Although, she does look presentable now. Hmm, must be that barber fellow. I suppose he can even make a sewer rat sparkle. But she was about eleven, twelve maybe. An extremely unbridled child, goodness knows what or who put that streak into her. It was not from any divine being _that_ is for certain."

"Are you implying Nellie Lovett was pre-determined for an afterlife below Fortune City?" Georgiana Reaping prodded.

"I did entertain the idea, such terrible circumstances—you know with those boys, her husband, and that barber fellow—" She whispered before adding, "do not happen to virtuous women. Even if sin and degradation knock, a lady will never lower her standards and answer."

That pompous pincushion! Those circumstances _never_ happen to a virtuous woman? Oh, but who else was virtuous? Of course! Lucy Barker. And my, my look what happened to that virtuous woman. A violated, vacant vagabond.

"And a mere passing curiosity would have been acceptable?" Georgiana insisted.

"Well, we are all flawed, imperfect. But recognition of unacceptable behavior is foremost. Then, the urge is eliminated."

"Do you believe Nellie Lovett wanted to vanquish unacceptable behavior?" Georgiana pushed.

"No," Aunt Nettie quietly replied and continued, "I believe she wanted to pursue that behavior. And furthermore, act on it."

"The witness has claimed my assumption," Georgiana triumphantly began, "Since childhood Nellie Lovett had no indication of adhering to authority, rules, polite behavior and the like. She had a fascination with culpable conduct. And the manifestation of intruding sin was one Benjamin Barker alias Sweeney Todd. Nellie Lovett could have refused his entrance. The pie shop was closed. But her curiosity and need for wickedness was insurmountable. And how could it be sated? Innocent blood."

"Mrs. Lovett, do you agree with these statements?" The judge asked.

"NO," She bellowed, stifling the urge to include 'I agree all this is verbal shit, it is.'

"You do not agree Benjamin Barker alias Sweeney Todd aided your wickedness?"

"No!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed, thoroughly shocked, "I dunno what all this rubbish is 'bout. I married me dear Albert 'cause it was arranged. We was a proper match—an' me fondness for him grew. I think on him from time to time. But to accuse me of wickedness? What happened to—to me children," Her voice was catching on sobs, but she struggled through the words, "To me precious Peter and Thomas, was _not_ 'cause of me. Providence had other plans for them. And Mr. Todd is not a wicked man, never was."

Georgiana Reaping choked on her laughter, "But he is a murderer! And you defiled the sanctity of a human body—making them into meat pies."

"Do you deny your actions, Mrs. Lovett?" The judge questioned.

"How can I?" She counter-questioned, beginning to pick imaginary lint off her dress. "I know what I did, you know what I did."

"Why did you do it?" The judge continued.

"Had to hide the bodies somehow, didn't want the poor bugger, Mr. Todd, goin' to prison. An' business needed a certain somethin'. The price of a decent slab of meat, oh it was monstrous. An' if I had the supplies right there—why waste it?" Her fingers drummed underneath the table, pulling away absent filth.

"But you did not want to mutilate the bodies did you, Mrs. Lovett?" The judge prodded.

"Well, it ain't natural if that's what you mean. Searin' flesh from bone, carvin' with me dear Albert's knives. But it had to be done."

"And why is that? Were you afraid Sweeney Todd would give you the same fate if you refused?"

Mrs. Lovett stared, mouth slightly agape. The thought had crossed her mind, surely. But it was nothing more than a scattering flutter. In Fortune City, however, she thought he would continue to murder her. But the judge hadn't asked _that_ question.

She gave a smug smirk before speaking, "Why should I care, when it was me idea in the first place?"

"And more importantly, your idea to keep the man you loved from leaving. You may claim Sweeney Todd was never wicked. But I think you confuse him too often, Mrs. Lovett. Benjamin Barker was never wicked; Sweeney Todd would have left you with the bloody pulp that once was Davy alias Signor Adolfo Pirelli—and consequently would have left you, a rotting corpse of a woman in Bedlam." Georgiana Reaping deduced, pupils constricted to treacherous little points.

"That ain't true!" Mrs. Lovett shouted.

"Mrs. Lovett, please!" The judge ordered, "Remember your place here. Now, what is the cause of this sudden outburst?"

"She's lyin'. Mr. Todd promised, wherever we was intended we would go together." She silently blubbered.

"And what if that was not possible, Mrs. Lovett?" The judge inquired.

"You mean, if I were to go above and he would go below?" She implored.

"Yes, an example to that extent." He agreed.

"I wouldn't go. I would go with Mr. T, I would never break his promise. An' if that couldn't happen I would go below so he could be above." She stated, unfaltering.

Thomas elicited a tiny gasp. But the judge continued.

"Are you saying, you would deserve a fate below Fortune City even if you were destined above? You would risk everything for Sweeney Todd?" The judge questioned, sitting at the very edge of his seat.

"Yes. I would do anythin' for Mr. Todd," She responded.

Georgiana Reaping tightly clamped her lips; but a tiny snarl escaped. George Reaping let out a defiant laugh.

"Well, well! Quite an unselfish and charitable woman, wouldn't you agree Mrs. Reaping?" George beamed in her direction. But Georgiana grumbled an affirmative and sat down, a little defeated.

Thomas produced a reassuring smile for Mrs. Lovett. But all she wanted was to take her late husband's cleaver and—

"Now, I thank you for your time Aunt Nettie but I would like to call upon my own witness. Mr. Albert Lovett," George Reaping replied with an appropriate mix of empathy and appreciation.

The silhouette of a handkerchief adieu-ing woman vanished; but it was soon replaced. A bald, obese man with a curled black mustache materialized. He cleared his throat several times, glancing around the room. His eyes momentarily studied his wife.

She was accustomed to such weirdness and obscurity by now. But her husband was there. He was not sitting in that leather chair. She was not nursing him. Cooking meals. Washing his face. Bringing a large brass pan for piss and shit—maybe it would have been less trouble if he just soiled his pants. But she remained dutiful and faithful. She was a good wife. But he did not thank her. He made no mention of love or respect. His last words were, "Don't let the shop fall, Nell." He was married to the butcher trade. She was but the momentary mistress when business was rough. That was Albert alright. She always remembered him as such. But to see him again, watch him breath with pink, healthy cheeks … She blinked away stray tears.

"State your relation to Fortune City, please," George Reaping smoothly addressed his witness.

"Above Fortune City," Albert succinctly replied with a gruff.

"Tell me about your wife Nellie." George Reaping skillfully began, noting his wife drumming her nails against the table.

"She was a good woman—never had me fill of them sweets tho'. Made such delicious blueberry an' raspberry pies. Always managed to make two for me birthday. Even when business was shit, dunno how she managed that—but no matter. She did what any sensible wife would I suppose." He answered, smacking his lips to the thought of her culinary creations.

"Do you recall the birth of your children, Thomas and Peter?" He questioned.

Albert Lovett was fidgeting. He remained silent.

"Take your time," George Reaping encouraged, and added with a warm smile, "we have plenty."

Albert coughed once, then twice. He cleared his throat, straightening his posture. He spoke slowly, solemnly, "I remember Nellie cryin' an' screamin'. I heard it all from the kitchen. I was pacin' around. Waitin' an' waitin'. Then the midwife comes out. Tells me all polite, but almost with no pity at all that I had two boys but—" He cut off there with an exaggerated sigh. He spoke to Mrs. Lovett now, "I wouldn't want you to think I didn't care, Nell. I just didn't know what to do. It made me so ill, so angry what the priest said. I had to bribe the old man up Fleet Street, you know the coroner, with what little pounds we had left. I left them to him. I trusted him with our boys."

"I forgive you, Albert," She whispered, tears streaming freely from her open eyes.

The judge made no protest to her murmur; he only gave a warning glance.

"So, you do not blame Mrs. Lovett for what happened to your children?" George Reaping continued.

"No, of course not," Albert scruffily disagreed.

"You do not consider this to be the cause of her _wickedness_?" He emphasized, watching Georgiana uncomfortably squirm.

"No. That sounds like a load of rubbish, it does. Somethin' a pompous person might say. But Nell had nothin' to do with it, she ain't wicked." Albert plainly stated; Mrs. Lovett tried to conceal a bold giggle.

"The witness has claimed my assumption," George Reaping proudly stated, "Mrs. Nellie Lovett was in no manner wicked. She was imperfect and flawed, as her Aunt Nettie stated. And no person, nor I, has a spotless record. She may have committed a crime or two, but not because of her wickedness! She was providing a favor to humanity. She was providing a service. She was riding the world of wickedness. And although the means were a touch severe—she provided a bakery service to London. And may I add, made our job just a bit easier—those scythe slices do make your rotator cuff ache something awful!"

"Objection!" Georgiana exclaimed, quite baffled. "Mr. Reaping is normalizing and generalizing murder!"

"Ah, but a good defense attorney would do nothing but the same." He answered.

"Over-ruled, Mrs. Reaping," The judge asserted, "You may proceed, Mr. Reaping."

It went back and forth like this for some time. A few more witnesses materialized and vanished. Her mother—Anna Sullivan—wept, howled like a banshee. She blamed her father, Edward Sullivan, that awful drunkard. Smelt like cat piss every night. That damned gin did him in quick. And she was forced to raise Nellie alone. It was all that bastard's fault. Then, the young butcher up a ways on Fleet Street, Charlie Dalton. He was so curious, so very inquisitive how Mrs. Lovett came upon such fine meat. She never once visited his shop. He was the only butcher around for miles. He thought it very peculiar, very strange indeed. The Reaping squabbling continued; objections swarmed like wasps.

And Mrs. Lovett felt an increasing anger, like an annoying twitch, curling her spine. The banter was ridiculous. Thomas tossed a few superficial grins. Each one made a queasy splatter against her stomach—the boy was so nauseating now.

"Sorry, for being so late, trouble at the office. It is harvesting season, you know!" A soprano voice chirped behind Mrs. Lovett.

"Oh bloody hell," She mumbled, pressing two fingers deep into her forehead.

Miss Emma Balm sauntered into the room, sashaying her hips around like some dog in heat. Her face was far too painted, with candy apple lips and charcoal eyelids. Her business suit was fuchsia and white pinstripe; her black stilettos clacked mercilessly against the floorboards. Her hair was a gelled mess of tangles and horns. And just a bit too much cleavage was protruding from the 'missed' button on her jacket.

But Thomas Bertram Stone smiled wide, with glazed, distant eyes. It would not have been the least surprising to notice funny cartoon hearts springing from his skull.

"Have a seat, Miss Balm. That way I can begin questioning immediately," Georgiana Reaping instructed, brushing away her fleeting annoyance.

Emma sat on the bench, languidly crossing her legs. She quickly winked at Thomas; his excitement was poorly contained.

"Do you recall your first impressions of Mrs. Nellie Lovett?" Georgiana Reaping began.

"Yes. I thought 'what a very sad, tiny person.' And what a horrendous stench! I cannot even begin to explain what exactly she smelt like—that would be terribly impolite. But I had to restrain myself from gagging. And her hair! Oh, well it looked so filthy. If you were to touch it, your hand would have stuck!" She gossiped, effortlessly chatting away.

"What was the diagnosis Dr. Richard Mortis reached regarding her mental health?" Georgiana quizzed.

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder with poor insight, which means Mrs. Lovett doesn't know how detrimental her symptoms really are. And dependent personality disorder as well." She mechanically replied.

"Do you believe the diagnoses are accurate?"

"Well, Dr. Mortis is a _very_ busy man," Emma smirked.

"Answer the question," Georgiana gruffly stated.

"What I mean is, Dr. Mortis gets hundreds of clients everyday. He doesn't have the time for accuracy."

"So, there is a possibility the diagnoses are inaccurate?" She pushed.

"It is possible," Emma Balm agreed before including, "He does tend to give out diagnoses like toffee you know. Free for anybody."

"Objection!" George Reaping exploded, "Dr. Richard Mortis is a respectable criminal psychopathologist. His accuracy _and_ validity rate are near perfect. That is something you should be very familiar with Miss Balm."

"Ah, ah. Watch you wording, Mr. Reaping you are slipping. He is _near_ perfect. That would indicate, however small or seemingly insignificant, the doctor is not immune to error." Georgiana scolded, waving her index finger.

"Over-ruled, Mr. Reaping. You may precede Mrs. Reaping," The judge stated.

"Thank you, your honor. Now, Miss Balm what was interaction like with Mrs. Lovett?"

"Mrs. Lovett is a malicious woman. She was very hurtful and cruel toward me. I wanted nothing but the best intentions for her. She made such awful accusations. That I was a tramp or a whore! Could you imagine? I'm not like-like _that_," Emma sniveled, producing a pink tissue from her bosom and loudly blowing her nose, "She even threatened me!"

"What did she say?" She inquired.

"That if I said anything bad, I would regret it. So I had better shut my mouth." Emma sniffed, wiping her wet lashes.

"You are such a foul liar!" Mrs. Lovett shouted, the precipice of her rage completely shattered.

"Order, I call order to this court!" The judge demanded.

"You threatened me! You called me a slut, a dried up old widow, a brainless fish, an' everything else your pretty little head saw fit to think up!"

"Mrs. Lovett! Show some self-control!" The judge commanded, quite irritated.

"You bloody liar. How can you sit there all hussied-up an' expect any of us to listen let alone believe this rubbish!" Mrs. Lovett continued, positively inflamed.

"Mr. Reaping, Mr. Stone control your client. Or she will be removed from court, and her trail will end prematurely," The judge addressed them, trying to remain calm.

"Mrs. Lovett! Mrs. Lovett! Stop this!" Thomas shushed her, "Do you want to ruin your chance for eternal happiness?"

"It don't much matter, do it? I think we all know how this sham will play out," She hissed, her blood boiling to explosion.

"Calm down, Mrs. Lovett," George Reaping directed, stooping down to her, "Have some hope yet, your situation is far from hopeless. I've been _dominating_ this courtroom. What qualms do you have against Miss Emma Balm?"

"Her bribery for one thing, she promised Mr. T 'a key to salvation' or some such nonsense if she could only have knowledge of him." Mrs. Lovett huffed, fixated on that sneering temptress.

"She didn't!" Thomas whispered, failing to recover from the shock.

"She bribed Mr. Sweeney Todd?" George Reaping confirmed.

"Yes, yes. But I'm sure he could attest better than me," She answered.

George Reaping could hardly contain his grin. He stood, pivoted, and faced the judge.

"Your honor," He smiled, "I would like to question the witness."

* * *

1) Lawyer's rather nice.—If it's for a price.—Order something else though to follow since no one should follow it twice. Haha, nice little pun there. 

Author's Note: Ooh, aren't I just horrible? To cut this off at such a crucial spot! I hope you enjoyed this longer chapter. I thought since you all have waited so patiently, you deserved it. :D

As a side, side note I hope you all had a more eventful Valentine's Day than I did. What did mine consist of you ask? A box of chocolate, some vodka (no worries I am 21 about two months) and a box of tissues. Yeah, fun times. :/

Oh, and if there are any spelling or grammatical errors, sorry sorry. I just wanted to get this up as fast as possible for you guys. :)

Until next time, faithful ones.


	12. Chapter 12

"_Yes, yes. But I'm sure he could attest better than me," She answered._

_George Reaping could hardly contain his grin. He stood, pivoted, and faced the judge._

"_Your honor," He smiled, "I would like to question the witness."_

"You may precede, Mr. Reaping," The judge approved.

"Thank you, your honor," George Reaping replied with the utmost respect. Then, he shifted focus to Emma, "What were the diagnoses of Sweeney Todd, Miss Balm?"

"Nightmare disorder and schizoid personality disorder," She replied, with the same monotone, mechanical voice.

"And what are some of the diagnostic criteria for schizoid personality disorder?" He questioned, innocently enough.

"Introverted qualities, few close friends, emotional coldness, detachment, flat affect, little desire for sexual relationships—" She responded, but was intercepted with another question.

"And you wanted to _personally_ examine that last criterion?" George Reaping interrupted.

"Excuse me?" Emma Balm counter-questioned, a mask of mock confusion covering her features.

"You tried to initiate a more intimate relationship with Mr. Sweeney Todd—more intimate than a client and therapist _should_ be. And furthermore, you bribed him. Sex for salvation." He deduced.

"Oh, is that what _she_ told you?" Emma spat, cocking her head at Mrs. Lovett, "Did she also tell you about the nice game of gory dentist we played?" She added, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"So you do not deny your actions?" George Reaping pushed, ignoring her clever addition.

"No," She huffed, arms crossed over her protuberant chest.

"Why did you lie to Sweeney Todd?" He continued.

"That's none of your damn business," She hissed.

"Actually, it is. Now, answer my question," George Reaping mused aloud.

"I refuse," Emma stubbornly replied, nose up-turned.

"Miss Balm," The judge offered, "You are familiar with the rules of Fortune City. We have never replaced a harvested individual, but if you do not give reason for your transgression—"

"I know, I _know_!" She loudly sniveled, before whining, "I know the consequences. But it isn't fair."

_A grown woman, whining like a little one what got her lolly stuck in the sand_, Mrs. Lovett thought, sadly shaking her head. It truly was a pathetic sight, but she felt no remorse.

"Why do you question the fairness of our system?" The judge wondered. "You've served as witness to several cases. Why the sudden change?"

Emma exploded suddenly without warning, "I won't give that woman the satisfaction of knowing anything about my past," Her acrylic fingernail dangerously pointed at Mrs. Lovett, "I don't want you hearing any of it!"

"You do have some choice in the matter," The judge reassured, "You may speak now, or you may speak during the trail tomorrow, with Mr. Sweeney Todd present."

Her face paled; she whispered, "Those are awful choices."

"Or you could be re-harvested," The judge mentioned.

A wave of sickness swept her face; her pained voice broke the silence, "I would rather do this in front of Mr. Todd."

"Very well," The judge concluded, "This trail has gone long enough; this court is adjourned until tomorrow afternoon,one o'clock. I expect everyone to arrive promptly, excluding Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Stone."

Emma Balm dashed from the bench, abruptly brushing past Thomas and brutally knocking his shoulder out.

"Ooh, what a rude thing," Mrs. Lovett commented, watching her exit and leave the courtroom door wide open.

"I-I just can't believe it," Thomas squeaked, stuffing a few papers in his briefcase.

"There, there love," Mrs. Lovett smoothly replied, "She ain't worth all this grief."

"But Mr. Todd is?" He questioned, looking her directly in the face.

"That's a different matter," She quickly rationalized.

"No, no it isn't. We're both the same, Mrs. Lovett," He observed, "We love those who cannot love themselves, and thus cannot love us."

Mrs. Lovett was speechless; she strained to keep her mouth from faltering agape. She never noticed, never thought Thomas would be so combative and confronting! It was disturbing. Even now, she watched his animation and rosy features wane. His cheekbones withered; his eyes reflected darkness, an infinite hollow to complement the black circles under his lids.

Although her hatred for Emma was insurmountable; Thomas pained her, his words were defeated and shriveled. She didn't like him this way.

Oh sure, he was an annoying little twit. But he was different. He gave remembrance of still being alive. And in such a dismal, dreary place his impish beacons of hope were strangely comforting at times.

But now, he was like all the rest.

"Are you so certain 'bout her?" Mrs. Lovett asked, trying to provide some support.

"What are you getting at, Mrs. Lovett?" Thomas sighed, snapping his briefcase shut.

"How do you know she don't fancy you?" She implored.

"Were you listening before?" Thomas counter-questioned, exasperated.

"Yes, I was. All I'm sayin' love is don't take people so seriously is all. You examine people too close and you miss everythin' on the surface. Now, I think you know what should be done, Mr. Stone," She lectured, watching his mouth form a small smile.

"I need to check on Miss Balm, excuse me Mrs. Lovett," He straightened, picked up his briefcase, and hurried out the door.

On the surface, Mrs. Lovett gave an astonishing performance of motherly affection and nurturance. But inside, nestled deep against a silent heart, she did not want to share misery with Thomas Bertram Stone. She needed it out at once.

* * *

Sweeney Todd was standing behind the floured kitchen counter, idly turning a green bottle of gin on the surface. He really had no use for it. He didn't have a use for his razor that was flicked open and shut. He didn't have a use for the wooden rolling pin jumping between his hands.

He was restless.

After he carried Mrs. Lovett downstairs into her bedroom, his incessant mind was awakened with buzzing thoughts.

_Slit her throat right 'ere Toddy-boy, put the poor woman out a her misery—Embrace her, rouse her, love the pain right out a her bones—But oh, she would just breathe again—But oh, you would just be in more of a mess. So what? So what? SO WHAT!_

He gently placed her on the coverlet, careful not to wake her. Then, he pulled the covers down slowly, soundlessly.

_She's asleep, sound an' dreamin'—probably of somethin' that could have been—what do you mean, could have been Toddy-boy? It would have never been. Never anythin' you could give, never anythin' that could make her happy._

He grasped the covers with both hands, pulling up now. He briefly stopped, studying those horrible wounds.

_What an awful thing to have happened to you love, an' I thought me life was so much worse—Benny, Benny, Benny silly Ben-ja-min! Your life was a shit! Don't compare things with her! Don't get too close to this one, boy. Fuck her if you want. Fuck your anger right into her. That's what a woman like that is good for. She needs it, you know she does._

_She needs it, you know she does. You know it. Know it. Do it._

His hands trembled; his fingertips smoothing over the thick black threads. They were coarse, tinged with brown, dried blood.

_Benjamin Barker would never. But Sweeney Todd would. Benjamin Barker would never! But Sweeny Todd would! _

She sighed. His eyes instantly darted.

_Waking up me pet? Sweeney's got some surprises for you, good little lamb. Somethin' to turn those wild, pained screams to somethin' else—But you are better than this, Benjamin. An' you know it, now leave her be. Let her rest. She's exhausted._

_An' you are too._

That was unfortunately true. He softly exhaled. His hands departed and grasped the sheets. He pulled them over her bare chest.

He watched her breathe, even and slow. Her face was relaxed but still moist with tears.

His fingers silently danced above her cheekbones. He traced her cheeks, lips, neck, chest, and breasts. But he did not touch her. He could not touch her.

Then, he quietly left. The floorboards made no squeaky protests. The door made no whiny disapproval; even the jiggled doorknob was silent.

He had dozed for a few hours in the den, sitting in a cushiony velvet chair. The break of artificial sunlight roused him. And the scurrying and slamming of doors made him jump. He stood perfectly straight and strode to her room with purpose.

But Mrs. Lovett was gone.

And without her around, there was little to do. He was left to his thoughts. He would never admit he _missed_ her. Sweeney Todd did not _miss_ anyone. That man was stoic and had an icy resolve—to miss someone implied softness, a weakness. And that was unacceptable. _So_, he reassured his pounding skull, _she interrupts all these bloody jumbled thoughts. She don't have to say much, just bein' nearby is enough. And that is a good thing, certainly._

Her silence, it reminded him of the previous night. Of her complete submission. Her trembling thighs complemented those quivering lips. Oh, what would she have said if she could? Probably more begging and pleading. Or mumbling his name, or better yet screaming his name.

Sweeney frowned.

_Why is it, when I think of her, all me thoughts are clear?_ He wondered.

But he didn't have to wonder much longer, that jangling kitchen bell ruptured his question. And she stood there, a ruffled mess. Her chest was awkwardly heaving, puffing her cleavage out more than necessary.

And of course his eyes were fixated there. And of course she wasn't wearing a corset again. And of course he was very content the counter just barely covered a certain jutting appendage.

She practically leapt over the counter, white streaks of flour smearing her dress. She slammed him against the wall; her warmth pressing him down.

It was startling; he could not even speak, for her mouth was feverishly claiming his at once. His hands coiled around her shoulders; he pushed her back quite some distance.

"What are you doin'?" He panted, searching her features for something, anything.

She smiled. It was a sly, catty smirk full of mischief and mirth. She pressed a steady finger to her mouth, and kneeled on the floor, inching closer to him.

She curled her hands around his pant leg, gently massaging his inner thighs, and delicately brushed over his bulge.

He roughly grabbed her chin in one hand. He twisted her neck up, as he pierced her heavy, lacquered eyes. His other hand drummed against his holster.

"You didn't answer me question, love," He purred, but it was far from passionate.

"The last time you didn't want me speakin'," She confessed, "So I figured I would still be a quiet, good little girl, just like you want Mr. T."

What a clever little vixen! But not quite clever enough!

"An' what makes you think I want this, me pet?" He hissed, turning her face askew.

Her eyes fluttered down, then quickly up to him, "I can see how much you want it, an' you deserve it, love," She whispered, tugging his belt.

"An' what if I want more?" He hungrily questioned; his fingers indenting her flesh.

"Whatever your pleasure, love," She replied huskily, firmly biting his belt buckle and yanking it out.

It was very surprising, her assumption. She was finally making decisions. His grasp went lax, his fingers opting to play with her wild tresses.

She spat the belt out; it made a defiant clang against the floor. Her fingers were expedient, unfaltering. His buttons flew against her fingertips. She forcefully pulled his dark pants and breeches down.

And here she stopped, admiring. Her smile grew wicked, wider.

A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth too. He grasped fistfuls of her silken hair, pushing her close enough so his sex rest on her bottom lip.

She gave a tiny, teasing lick. Just one, and opted for giving hot trailing kisses down his length. Then, her kisses were replaced with quick, darting licks as she worked up again.

Sweeney grumbled against his clenched teeth. She was making this so torturous, yet so delectable. And he knew his little slave would not disappoint.

Her lips parted, and she enveloped him completely. Her movements were slow, steady. Her tongue would occasionally flicker against him; then, her teeth would lightly graze that wet trail.

_Oh, you maddening woman_, his thoughts moaned. His fingers tightly curled her hair. He wanted to push her faster, harder. He wanted her choking, gasping for air. But his thoughts were muddled deep in fervor and lust.

She was pumping him now, with both hands. Her fingers made tightening and relaxing circles, as her practiced wrists twisted. He received a wriggling lick at his slit-opening.

He loudly groaned, feeling gratifying throbbing and feverish twinges. His hands circled around her head. He pushed her down so deeply, her nose tickled his pubic hair.

But much to his surprise—and pleasure!—she did not gag. She sucked harder, her cheeks tightening and relaxing much like her hands had previously done. Her busy hands were now gently massaging his scrotum; her thumbs deeply indenting his thighs for leverage.

His howl was feral, reverberating in his throat. She was coaxing him closer and closer. Soon, very soon, he would be lost. He intently watched her, so proficient, so powerful …

Sweeney abruptly clutched her throat, removing her from his aching sex. He hoisted her up by the neck, studying her coughing and heavy gasps. Her eyes were a sea of confusion and dread.

_Just how it should be_, he triumphantly thought.

"What-what's t-t-the matter, love?" Her voice cracked, as he violently crushed her windpipe.

"That's enough, now," He commanded, "Did you really think I would let you have it?"

"Have what?" She sputtered, struggling under his grasp.

"'Have what' she says!" He mocked, slightly loosening his fingers, "Control, me pet."

"No, no it's not like that," She quickly replied, "You've got it all wrong, dear. I'm servin' you. I always will—"

He jammed three fingers into her mouth, firmly pressing her waggling tongue down. He was finished with her games.

"If it's not like that, as you say, you wouldn't be teasin' me so. This is a warnin', don't do it again. Or I'll cut your pretty little tongue right out. Do you understand?" He growled.

She nodded once, 'yes.'

"An' another thing, pet. Sweeney Todd is never wrong. Your _Master_ is never wrong," He emphasized.

She nodded again, 'yes.'

"Tho' it is nice to hear you sayin' you'll always serve me. Is that true? Speak," He commanded, removing his fingers.

She heavily gulped fresh air, after several trembling minutes her voice returned, "Yes."

"Ah-ah," He chided, "Yes, what?"

"Yes, Mr. T," She blushed a deep scarlet.

"In public you may address me as such, but not now," He instructed, "When we are alone like this, I am your Master and you serve only me."

"Yes, Master," She whispered.

"Good, good girl," Sweeney reassured, "Now, pick up me clothes. An' we can finish this mess you've started."

* * *

Mrs. Lovett did not remember sex as very pleasurable.

She did remember however, shivering naked underneath a white cotton gown. She remembered her eyes growing larger with fear, apprehension. And her prayers were feverish—Lord, if I am to die under the weight of me husband let the sufferin' be quick. But even Albert had some common sense, and she was always placed above him.

She never once transgressed in her marriage. She had _thought_ of cornering a scruffy young sailor between the narrow abyss of a wet London alley. She could even hear the clanks of change against the pavement after her mind-deed was complete. But she was a dutiful wife. She even felt guilty pleasuring her body alone.

But this, this was so different.

The new man she loved, desired, cared for with every scrap of worthless bone in her body—he made things so sore but tender. Such an agony. Oh, but such a thrill.

She was nude. And she could only assume he was too, for her eyes only saw darkness. She was blindfolded. And her hands were tied tightly behind her. She was crouched, kneeling on the edge of her bed.

And she waited.

And waited, oh she tried to be patient, she tried to be compliant. But she whimpered.

One finger tapped against her lips. And she was welcome for any touch. Gentle, rough, passionate, wild. Anything.

"Be quiet, love," He hushed her, "I haven't given you permission for sound yet, but I will. Oh, I will."

She nodded, submissively bowing her head.

This action must have been pleasing to her beloved, for her breasts were being massaged. His calloused thumbs stroked her nipples, making them hard like small pebbles.

Her sex was already damp from his manipulation. She slightly squirmed.

That action must have been offensive, for she received twin smacks causing her breasts to slap uncomfortably together. She tightly clenched her teeth, and braced for another wallop. Two, three, four, five smacks in rapid succession pummeled her sore flesh. She could feel the burning warmth, it radiated to her cheeks. She was certain her chest was deep red.

But she was being good, even though her chest was raw and heavy with ache; no tears threatened her chance of a little reward.

"Open your legs," He commanded; and she did so, unfaltering.

"Wider," He ordered, but his voice sounded distant—too far away to offer her some release.

But she obeyed, until her inner thighs wobbled under the strain. Then, suddenly something lashed against her buttocks and tied hands.

She yelped too loudly, and wished her voice was silent. She received a second, harder thrash. This time something metallic clipped her flesh, for she felt wetness trailing down her bottom. She realized it was his belt.

And then they came, the violent punishing whips. Mrs. Lovett groaned and cried and sobbed behind her teeth. But her body was still, only jerking against each reverberation. What of resistance now? What of dignity now? She was his, as she had wanted. Her body displayed, every crevice, accessible to him.

"Is this what you are?" He questioned, pausing briefly, "Are you my impertinent slave?"

She dared not utter a word. She did not even breathe.

"You may speak," He replied with approval and a foreign pleasantness.

"Your loyal slave," She sighed, appreciative for the reprieve, and added, "Your loyal slave forever, Master Todd."

She could not decipher if the belt was discarded. But she could pray it was. She bit her lip, waiting in anticipation and dread.

_Maybe, oh no, maybe I gave the wrong answer_, her thoughts alarmed.

But strong, firm arms were upon her waist now. And she would know soon enough.

He pressed her body tight to him, and their warmth mingled. Oh, damn him for tying her hands together. She wanted to feel him with more than her breasts and stomach.

"I know you are," He hotly whispered into her ear, "I was just testin' you, love. You may speak freely now."

"Thank you, Master," She breathed, relief flooding her voice.

But his warmth left, leaving her bereft and shockingly cold. She stifled another whimper, and hid it somewhere deep below her navel. But his hands remained rooted in her hips. He was guiding her, over something warm, ankles, knees, legs—

She gasped, he was beneath her now. And his erection was playfully tapping against her wet opening. She was hovering above such delectable pleasure. It was so close.

And she was impaled, brought down forcefully. She screamed, her sex stretching and engorged with him. His nails dug into her flesh, leaving half-moon crescents.

She wailed, coiled in a delirious place, a place of dual desire. He lifted her, almost completely withdrawn, and brutally crashed her down again.

Mrs. Lovett was crazed. She was thirsty, hungry, starved for him. She needed more. Her body was slick with sweat, her breasts bouncing roughly with each thrust.

"Harder, oh please Master, harder," She yearned, mouth wide open.

Sweeney grunted, releasing one hand from her hip, and grabbed her tied hands and pulled them down. Her back roughly arched, making her perfectly perpendicular to his pounding. This action pushed him deeper still.

The stabbing, shooting pain was intensifying her pleasure. She cried louder, carried on crashing waves of desire.

His throaty groans excited her immensely, and she involuntarily tightened. She enveloped him deep within her sex. And with that brief undulation, he violently throbbed.

His hands were gone, and she was feverishly grinding down as he viciously shoved up. Oh, she had sight! The blindfold drooped, making a large U over her vigorous breasts. She looked down, with thick, hooded eyes. Her love, her Master, her desired one. His eyes were piercing, absorbing her curves and hollows. His face twisted between concentration and lust. His teeth were barred, and he growled very low.

One hand was clasping, rubbing and stroking her stiff clitoris. The other circled under her bottom and squeezed hard.

She shook and trembled, longingly looking into his dark eyes. She saw nothing but that. Her hips lifted, rocking and unsteady. She could not contain her yearning and passion. She fiercely climaxed, madly shouting and screaming his name.

And then, his baritone groan reverberated over her rattled bones. She tensed as a hot liquid painted her womb in long, languid bursts.

They remained connected for some time, controlling their breaths, relaxing in a cold sweat. Then, he promptly withdrew and untied her burning hands. She collapsed near him, one hand placed over him, where a bounding heartbeat should have been.

"I love you, Mr. Todd," She sleepily mumbled into his salty skin.

"I know," He responded.

"I would do anythin' for you, Mr. Todd," She continued, with a droning yawn.

"I know," He repeated.

"I mean it, every word, anythin' so long as you were happy. I—"

"Rest now," He quietly directed, "Dream of me, if you like."

_Oh my love_, she drowsily thought with a little smile, _I could never have any good ones now._

* * *

Author's Note: Oh man, oh man. What more can I say but this? My fans (and subsequent reviews) will either plummet to nothing, or rise to far reaches I never thought possible.

But, irregardless!

Oh! And sometimes I need a little help—and no I don't mean help as in what you think, perves :p—writing these more err, 'intimate' scenes so I turn to music! And in case you would be interested in the soundtrack for all the comings and goings (haha, such bad puns now) of Mr. Todd and his dear Mrs. Lovett here you go:

Lisahall – Is this real?  
Lacuna Coil – Within Me  
Lacuna Coil – Devoted  
Nightwish – Wish I Had an Angel  
Nightwish – Nemo  
Type O Negative – Love You to Death

And as you can see, or listen, or both, I tried to incorporate appropriate songs for my story. And I hope I did not disappoint. :)

Until next time, faithful ones.


	13. Chapter 13 The Last Morning

_O sleep, O gentle sleep,  
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,  
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down  
And steep my sense in forgetfulness?_  
William Shakespeare, _Henry IV_, Part I

* * *

It was very early, perhaps not a minute or so past three o'clock.

Sweeney Todd sat, rigidly straight, against the bed frame. The white sheets were scrunched under his navel, scratching his stomach with even the most miniscule turn. The solitaire candle was painting the room brilliant amber, but just out of snuffing reach. This insomnia was an unwelcome guest. But to place blame merely on sheets or candles—oh, he knew better.

Something happened yesterday. Something more than the obvious.

He had thought her so wicked, so treacherous, and so very filthy. A polluted soul, thick with deceitful black splotches. She was not human. Not a woman. But a thing. Or better still his toy, to be molded and manipulated. Similar thoughts kept his stomach from sloshing with sickening gurgles.

But his defeated eyes glanced down.

Mrs. Lovett was snuggled against him; her breath tickling tiny, untraceable hairs on his skin. Her silken arms were loosely wrapped around his body; her face propped up with two pillows. Her long, russet tendrils extended like vines on a terrace.

Her face was a portrait of serenity and contentment. The singular flame flickered across her features, making dark hollows suddenly very bright. She almost looked innocent, beautiful.

But her words, those brief words destroyed any chance of a momentary aesthetic confirmation. 

"_I love you, Mr. Todd,"_

Those three simple, honest, and magnificent words—such words that would make Benjamin Barker weep for joy. It had been five thousand four hundred and seventy some odd days. Bleak mornings of waking to screams, haunted wails of broken men. Endless nights of praying, begging to an unmerciful God. _Please, please let the guards pass my cell. Please, please make them forget me. Please, please Lord, if they see me let the beating be quick._ But it was hopeless. They came every night, drunk or sober, and they pummeled him against the cobblestone. Even when he was allowed a whore, when one guard would spare pity on him even for ten minutes, he never tasted her. Her thickly smeared lipstick, her salty sea-swept flesh—no, all he could taste was blood, sweat, shit and piss—yes, all those bastards laughed so damn hard when they caked his aching bones with the contents of his chamber pot.

The first night a whore was brought, he sat in the corner and observed.

Her name was Kittie—or whatever name she had decided on that night. She was American, with thick, curly burgundy hair and lackluster eyes. He would have never seen her, the cell was sooty and dark, but she lit a cigarette. The match lingered long enough for a brief examination of her features.

"You ain't gonna fuck me are ya?" She hacked, chortling something deep in her throat.

"No, no-no, I would never, not me." Benjamin Barker stammered.

"Honey, ya don't have'ta treat me right. I'm good for it," She reassured, spitting onto the cobblestone floor.

"How can you do it?" He silently questioned aloud.

But Kittie answered anyway, "Easy, just kill 'em off. All those fuckin' feelings. Concentrate on one thing. Money's that one thing for me. Ya just gotta find yours, honey."

The day Benjamin Barker died was underneath two crunching leather boots, face plastered into blood and vomit, hearing echoing, maniacal laughter.

Sweeney Todd was born into silence. The guards would not torment him then. They could not. He did not squirm, beg, or feverishly cry. He was boring now, not as much of a good romp. 'He had no soul left to break,' one of them said. That was the last Sweeny Todd heard from them. And escaping was so much easier. He didn't bother searching for Kittie. He probably would have killed her anyway.

For he felt nothing but revenge. Everything else died with a weak, starved prisoner choking on times past instead of times ahead.

"_I would do anythin' for you, Mr. Todd,"_

It was maddening really, her compliance and devotion. But words are just words. And what do words have without meaning? Nothing. So how can meaning be tested? Well, through a show of good faith of course. Mrs. Lovett shared much more than last night. And in that moment between the dueling sisters of desire, pleasure and pain, she was truly his. His heart could harden or wither. His mind could conjure numerous denials, rationalizations, even intellectualizations. But, he loved her then. But he would never admit it—that risk was far too great.

She was stirring, eyelids only slightly fluttering. And then her radiant, fire-illuminated eyes were open. She titled her head; her eyebrows knit together.

"Have you slept any?" She questioned, concern flooding her voice.

"No," Sweeney confessed, quickly adding, "But don't trouble yourself 'bout that."

Mrs. Lovett frowned, and her lips bunched on him. She spoke again, "It certainly is troublin', love. Considerin' I can hardly sleep much with you awake. Now, there must be somethin' botherin' you. Tell me. It will do you good sayin' it than keepin' it locked away up there." She motioned with her nose toward his head.

_Perceptive! But unfortunately not worthy of the truth_, he thought._  
_

"I was thinkin' 'bout me trial," He lied, turning away from her inquisitive eyes.

"Worried 'bout it, huh?" She asked, and included, "But I'm more worried 'bout how you can't look at me when you say that."

_Certainly caught on quick_, he brooded.

Sweeney sighed, a practiced one, and revealed some false emotion, "I don't want you seein' how worried I really am."

"Oh, now love," She huffed, flipping onto her back, "you don't need to hide everythin' from me. That ain't fair an' you know it."

What was this mockery? How dare she, how dare she question him! She was prying, sifting around places her pretty little nose did not belong. He would extinguish her intrigue.

Sweeney pounced and roughly sat over her lithe body. She gave a startled, yet hungry gasp. His grimace deepened. _Little slut_, he vehemently thought, _you'll get nothin' from me_.

His hands clutched and crossed over her throat; his grasp tightened. And soon, her trachea was bulging under his thumbs.

"Why are you askin' me all these infantile questions?" He hissed, his lips curling over barred teeth.

Mrs. Lovett answered with a protruding tongue and bullfrog chokes. Her face was distorted, stained dark orange from the leaping flame. Her eyes bulged, almost bursting from their sockets.

"So I don't look at you. So I don't sleep. So I hide. What else do you _think_ you know?" He questioned, forcefully knocking her head against the pillows.

Her fingers were lacing around his arms; then, her fingernails deeply bit him. Little blood rivulets were soon coursing down, raining onto his interlocked hands.

"You should have pretended to sleep. You should have kept quiet. Then, I wouldn't be doin' this to you, love. Don't you see? Don't you understand?" He begged, watching her arms slacken.

His smile was atrocious, snarled and open, tongue eagerly pressed against his teeth. His eyes darted from her barren eyes, flared nostrils, parted mouth, diminished chest heaves, prominent ribcage, those murderous twin scars . . .

He immediately stopped and removed his hands. Mrs. Lovett sputtered and coughed, awkwardly twisting her neck. She deeply gulped and gasped for air. He crawled away, sitting on the edge of her bed. He turned his back, head hanging very low. His open palms supported his pounding head and closed his burning eyes. But that clawing, gnawing voice was coming back. It was scraping away, pulling his last strand of sanity.

_Toddy-boy, oh Toddy-boy! Look what you've left unfinished. Tsk, tsk, tsk—Unfinished, yes. I can't continue this.—Why the hell not? Said so yourself, woman should have kept quiet and stayed asleep. An' she didn't. So why don't she deserve to be shaken up a bit?—But we, you, no I. I was goin' to kill her.—An' you never had any problems with that before. What makes her so damn special?—She's been through enough.—According to you maybe, Toddy-boy, but not me._

"Sorry, for botherin' you dear."

_Can you believe it, Toddy-boy? After all your shit, still comes crawlin' back.—It certainly is commendable, tolerable even.—What? No. No. No. Don't start handin' out encouragin' words yet. She might make somethin' go off again, dammed woman._

"I was only tryin' to help you."

_Ah-ha! Ha-ha HA! Help? Are you hearin' what I hear, Toddy-boy?—Maybe she was bein' helpful. Maybe I should have listened to her.—Hey, hey. You only listen to me, understand lad?_

"I was preparin' you. For what they'll be askin' at your trial. Figured it would ease your worry, maybe help you sleep even."

_Oh, you figured did you? Ease me worry, love?—Don't chide her. She had righteous intentions.—Sure has a way of showin' it tho'! Think she might have warned us 'bout this, not just delve right in where she don't belong.—But I don't think it would have been as effective.—BUT I DON'T THINK, NO. YOU don't think. WE think. An' if WE decide she needs a good roughin' up YOU agree with ME, understand Toddy-boy?—WE won't hurt her anymore.—No, but YOU still might._

"Come on now, come back to me. We can sleep together."

Sweeney glanced back over his shoulder. She was patting some imaginary dust away from one of the pillows, lovingly placing it next to the other. She motioned with one hand for him. Her smile was honeyed and warm.

"Are you certain?" He cautioned, quite baffled at her tolerance.

"Yes," She affirmed, coyly patting the linen.

"I might do somethin' again," He warned, trying one last time.

"An' you might not, love. I would risk it. Now, quit stallin' an' come 'ere." She sweetly laughed, gently tugging him back.

If she could forgive and forget so easily, perhaps he would try too.

They lay together, comfortable and relaxed, with fresh sweat from delectable cravings and unbridled passion. And for the first time in years, Sweeney Todd slept without fear.

* * *

Sweeney Todd was roused by tinkling keys and a jangling doorknob. Then, a defiant whine from the opening door caused him to straighten. He disentangled from his partner, making sure she was still covered, and sat up.

Catherine Daver tip-toed into the room. Those black curls bounced against her high cheekbones with each careful step. Her eyes locked with him. She looked a little startled.

"You were not in your shop, Mr. Todd. I decided to check all the rooms," She produced the keys, silently waving them around before including, "I have skeleton keys, for all my clients."

"An' so you've found me. Congratulations," He unenthusiastically whispered, glancing around the floorboards for his clothes.

"Yes, but I did not expect to find you _here_, Mr. Todd," She emphasized, stooping to grasp his clothes and effortlessly tossing them on the bed.

He ignored the statement, opting instead to rummage through his garments. His nose crinkled. He had been wearing the same clothes for days. And all this time he was more concerned with how Mrs. Lovett looked. Now, _he_ must have looked a proverbial shit.

Catherine Daver must have had some inkling, for she spoke quite expediently, "You might as well just get dressed in those, Mr. Todd. We do not have much time to clean them. Or for you to parade around stark as the day you were born, looking for something else."

"An' where exactly are we goin' off to so fast?" Sweeney asked, putting on his undergarments and pinstripe pants.

She sighed, tapping her foot against the floorboard, and said, "Does anyone relay messages in this damn city? Miss Emma Balm reassured me, countless times, she would tell you."

"Tell me what, exactly? She's said and done quite enough already," He huffed, buttoning his off-white shirt.

"But I suppose it slipped her mind to mention your trial today, hmm?"

Sweeney grunted, tying a blue-brown scarf around his neck. He shrugged into his worn brown vest and resumed buttoning. He spoke slowly, trying to control his annoyance, "I wish Miss Emma Balm would slip me mind as easily as she slipped in forgettin' to mention me trial."

"Yes, well," Catherine mused, "We can all wish, Mr. Todd. But she is one of the witnesses."

"Perfect," He muttered, perhaps just a bit too loudly.

Mrs. Lovett stirred and slowly walked her fingers around his mid-section. Catherine Daver watched with mild amusement, tilting her head to one side.

"Come back to bed, love," She sleepily mumbled, "No reason gettin' dressed if I'll be takin' everythin' off again."

Catherine stifled a small giggle. But she motioned toward the door, tapping an imaginary wristwatch.

Sweeney turned back, brushing a stray hair from her forehead, "I will come back, soon. An' I want you just like this. Now rest. You'll need every minute of it, love."

He stooped lower, desperate to kiss her mouth, to run his fingers over her curves—but he retracted. He inched away, watching her drift back to candied dreams.

He hated promises.

He hated reassurances.

And most of all, he hated the toll of keeping them.

* * *

Author's Note: Did you miss me? I missed you guys very much! Can you believe this is (insert drum roll here) one of the final chapters? Shocking I know isn't it? I'm sure you can all guess by this chapter's title how many chapters are left. You're all a smart bunch. ;) And as a side note, I decided to pair up my characters with actors/actresses (kind of late, I know /) so you can envision them with Johnny and Helena a bit more (but of course if you like your own vision better, by all means stick with it!). In any case, here we go!

George Reaping – Hugh Jackman (X-men Trilogy, Van Helsing)

Catherine Daver – Kate Beckinsale (Underworld, Underworld: Evolution, Van Helsing, Click)

Thomas Bertram Stone – Ewan McGregor (Star Wars, Moulin Rogue, Big Fish)

Dr. Richard Mortis – Daniel Day Lewis (There Will Be Blood, The Ballad of Jack and Rose, Gangs of New York)

Miss Emma Balm – Christina Applegate (Married with Children, Samantha Who?)

Georgiana Reaping – Julia Roberts (Charlie Wilson's War, Erin Brockovich, Pretty Women)

Fortune City Judge – Can you believe it? I'm drawing a complete blank. Maybe you guys have some ideas?

Aunt Nettie – Meryl Streep (Lions for Lambs, Evening, The Devil Wears Prada)

Albert Lovett – Dan Aykroyd (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, Christmas with the Kranks, 50 First Dates)

Anna Sullivan – Bette Midler (The First Wives Club, The Stepford Wives)

Charlie Dalton – Jason Biggs (American Pie Trilogy—because I really don't count anything after American Wedding :P)

Phew! I could only imagine if all these actors and actresses got together and my little story became well ... yeah, back to reality. :PNow, once again as always:

Until next time, faithful ones. 


	14. Chapter 14 The Last Afternoon

_For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night. - _William Shakespeare

* * *

The sky was very dark, similar to colors of splattered jugulars and clipped carotids. The clouds were jagged inkblots. The artificial sunlight, so promising and hopeful inside, was absent.

The cobblestone streets were clean yet worn. The lofty buildings stretched like open arms, grasping with inquisitive fingertips for something unattainable.

The people were hurried, knocking out shoulders, and squeezing through flesh barriers to unknown destinations. Each one was a hollowed, dark shell of someone once vibrant.

This place. _This_ was the fabled Fortune City?

Sweeney Todd wished the terrain was infinite black again.

In those early waking hours, his lover was illuminated orange by flickering candles. The sweat slithering down her sternum was glittering and golden. Her breath was a soothing salve.

Her lips parted. That mellifluous, enveloping voice spoke, "What do you think it looks like?"

Who could harden from such an innocent question? Certainly a man focused on revenge would ignore such an impudent little thought. Certainly a murderous man would make a woman choke on such an inquisitive question. But he was trying to forget those men. And he desperately wanted to forgive those men. They knocked with clenched fists against his resolve, aching for a momentary release. They silently mocked him. They lavished him with lies and false pretence. They were always calling, screaming: _Toddy-boy, Toddy-boy … Come out an' play. We miss the games you play._

"Fortune City you mean," He answered, just barely avoiding those gnawing voices.

"Mm-hmm," She affirmed and added, "Thomas says nothin' but praise for her splendor. An' every night since we've been 'ere I've dreamt of how beautiful she must be."

"Sky must 'ave been blue," Sweeney offered.

"An' clear too. The shops are white marble, gorgeous like that courthouse," She sighed.

"Sparklin' streets," He continued, lightly fingering her damp tendrils.

"An' happy people too. All of 'em look so bloody awful—just like ghosts or somethin' worse," She criticized before asking, "Oh, do you think we're right?"

"Mr. Stone wouldn't go on 'bout it so much if we weren't right, love," He concluded, gently kissing her forehead before succumbing to slumber.

What a horrible disappointment, yet a most cunning deception.

"Is this it?" Sweeney questioned, keeping pace with Catherine Daver.

"If you see a red skyline, hundreds of similar buildings, and thousands of hollow people then yes—this is Fortune City," She answered, tone flat and devoid of feeling.

"He lied," Sweeney hissed.

"Who lied?" She asked, momentarily curious.

"Your assistant, Mr. Stone. He told Mrs. Lovett Fortune City was _so_ beautiful and _truly_ indescribable." He emphasized, dripping with sarcasm and irritation.

"That certainly does not surprise me," She sighed, reminiscing about better times, "We were all like that once."

"What do you mean?" He implored, pressing for a clear answer.

"Fortune City _is_ beautiful. _Anything_ and _everything_ is beautiful _if_ you are chosen. Thomas waited for about twenty-five years, pretty short actually compared to some," She stated, still incredibly elusive.

"I don't understand," He said, thoroughly confused.

"Harvesting is difficult to explain without the proper visuals. Perhaps, if time is not too pressed, you may go with Thomas to the fields," She replied, pushing through a mob of black suits and skirts.

Sweeney was silent, for the majestic courthouse was before them. He forcefully bounded the steps, pondering about anything and everything in Fortune City.

* * *

He knew the courthouse rules. Mrs. Lovett was kind enough to explain the barbaric system, but following the rules was a different matter. The problem was not remaining silent. The problem was those annoying little whispers. If only the incessant ridicule from hedonistic voices would cease. He could wish. He could hope. But they always crawled back, threatening to sever tranquility and reason.

And yet, they were very peculiar. He did not have internal confrontations before. He certainly did not have them while alive. They emerged in Fortune City. And they only emerged during the most inopportune times.

He would hold them back. He _had_ to hold them back.

"I call this court to order. Mr. Reaping you may resume questioning the witness," The judge loudly announced before sitting down.

Sweeney was oblivious—and quite embarrassed about being hauled to attention by Catherine Daver as the judge entered. He sat awkwardly and remained perfectly still, scanning the room with only his eyes. Catherine Daver was seated to his right. She was positively rigid. Ankles together. Knees together. Hands tightly folded in her lap. Shoulders forward. She did not even blink. Another woman with long burgundy hair, probably Mrs. Reaping, was standing to his left. She was attractive enough—except for that repugnant, soured look. And Mr. Reaping was receiving her glares. He was vigorously questioning some witness.

And, of course, the witness was Miss Emma Balm. Her dress was dark plum, accentuated by a plunging neckline. Her eyes were dark and caked with kohl. Her signature smile pulled those ruby lips very wide.

"You have agreed to give your rationale for bribing my client, Miss Balm. Take your time and do remember: you are under oath and obligation to Fortune City," George Reaping stated with utmost seriousness.

"Fine, I'll be succinct. I admit trying to seduce Mr. Sweeney Todd. I admit to allowing him a chance for salvation. But this is my future profession. I was only practicing my clinical skills," Emma Balm huffed, tossing her head back.

Sweeney Todd swallowed a disgusted grunt. That vile harlot was twisting the truth!

"But your approaches, your _clinical skills_, were far from therapeutic," George Reaping confirmed.

"That is a matter of personal opinion, certainly. My methods are a bit _radical_, but they did prove a point: Sweeney Todd is still capable of murder, and he cannot conform to any rule or regulation. And we all know where men like that belong," She triumphantly stated, pointing one acrylic nail to the floorboards.

_Did you ever wonder Toddy-boy?—Oh, you again. Away with you.—Come now, tell me. Did you ever wonder?—Leave me.—This how you treat old friends? For shame, lad.—I said leave me.—You can do better than that, lad.—I won't say it again.—Toddy-boy, you can't threaten me. That would be threatening you! That's insanity for sure. Now just listen . . . _

"Your assumption of where my client belongs is entirely irrelevant," George Reaping scoffed. His eyebrows furrowed together before asking, "And what of your living years, Miss Balm?"

"What about them?" She counter-questioned, but a bit too quickly.

"Do you believe your living years have affected your relationships, personal or professional, in Fortune City?" He questioned.

"I suppose. But I fail to see your rationale for asking me these ridiculous questions, Mr. Reaping," Emma Balm replied, desperately covering her anxiety.

"I have my methods, Miss Balm. Very much like your own: radical yet effective. Now, what was the reason you committed suicide?" He pushed.

Her features were instantly pained. She struggled through her words, "I was _sick_ of being used."

"The term 'being used' has many connotations. Could you be more specific?" He inquired.

Emma Balm clasped her hands over her trembling legs. She spoke slowly but stuttered, "M-m-my body. My body was being used."

"And who was using your body?" George Reaping continued, delving deeper.

She choked on bitter resentment, forcefully swearing, "My father, alright! I downed a whole bottle of pills, acetaminophen or some shit, and chased it with a bottle of vodka because of that fucking _bastard_."

"Did you love your father, Miss Balm?"

"I only loved him because of that omnipotent title. But I hated that man," She mumbled, eyes brimming with tears.

"Did you love other men?" He persisted.

"Yes, yes of course," She said, a little baffled by the question.

"And did you, subsequently, have relations with those men?"

"Yes," Emma Balm tersely replied.

"All of them?"

"Yes!" She exclaimed, becoming increasingly infuriated.

"So thus, you began to equate sex with love. Sweeney Todd became your prospective client and you were instantaneously enamored with him. You offered him your body, and just for an added success measure you promised him ultimate happiness, a chance for salvation. What happened during your living years was unforgivable, Miss Balm. I will not deny that. But you have violated the foundations of Fortune City. The most prominent principle is—"

"Truth! Honesty! And more bullshit!" She exploded, abruptly interjecting him, "Sweeney Todd will never achieve ultimate happiness. _Ever_. He was a murderer during his living years. He is still a murderer. He tried to kill me! And Mortis? A fucking joke. He gives out diagnoses so clients like yours can plead insanity. Why do you defend him? The witnesses are only going to be worse after me. Because no one," She was fixated on Sweeney now, "not even your filthy-drunk, foolish parents would defend your damned soul."

The room was completely silent.

"You don't see it? What a riot! Or maybe you refuse to see it. You are giving him false hope. And wouldn't that mean all of you are breaking rules too? Hmm?" She angrily inquired.

Sweeney was grasping the table so tightly his nail beds were white.

_Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. No words. Nothin'. Close your mouth—Can you really, Toddy-boy? Do you hear what she's sayin'? 'Bout all these lies. On your feet. Confront them._

Catherine Daver had a firm hold on his leg. Her fingertips warningly drummed on his patella. She leaned over and whispered, "She wants to upset you. Ignore her, Mr. Todd."

_Ignore her! So easy for you, love. You might be in on all this too.—What are you talkin' 'bout?—You never wondered? Not even once? That all this might be a sham?_

"You are attacking this court and our entire system, Miss Balm. You are in a very precarious position," The judge cautioned and continued, "I urge you, choose your words carefully."

_Do you see what they're doin'? Changin' subjects an' makin' you forget. You're a man aren't you? Do somethin'. Say somethin'. Anythin'.—No, no. Go away. Leave me. I can handle this.—LIKE HELL YOU CAN. GET READY TODDY-BOY. HERE I AM!_

Sweeney Todd slowly, methodically stood. His eyes reflected a dark bitterness—someone completely callous and sadistic.

"Mr. Todd, sit down!" Catherine Daver quietly insisted. She angrily pulled on his pant leg.

She received a loud, open-palmed slap over her mouth. His fingers curled and gripped her temporal-mandibular joint. She released a small, muffled cry.

_What are you doin'?!—Speakin' up. Gettin' your point across. Doin' somethin'. Doin' anythin' but sit on your ass and say nothin'. If you can't do this, then I will. I will be you._

Sweeney pierced into her wide, shocked eyes. She was immediately silent.

Georgiana Reaping stared, but kept a safe distance. She quivered, obviously frightened.

George Reaping attempted a negotiation, "Mr. Todd, please, your trial has just commenced. Release Miss Daver and we can forget about—"

"IS IT TRUE?" He shouted, interrupting the baffled attorney.

"Mr. Todd, release Miss Daver at once!" The judge fumed.

"IS IT FUCKIN' TRUE?!" He wildly exclaimed, walloping his palm back. Catherine whimpered underneath the whiplash.

"Mr. Todd, please—" George Reaping pleaded again.

"Enough," He hissed between clenched teeth. He sternly spoke, "Tell me the truth. NOW."

_You're mad. End this. End this now.—Orderin' me around is futile Toddy-boy. I control you. So relax a bit. Enjoy the fun a bit. You'll love it. Love it._

"Is _what_ the truth, Mr. Todd?" The judge questioned, regaining some semblance of composure.

"This is a sham, ain't it? You've lied the _entire_ time," He snarled, slowly releasing his grasp around a trembling mouth.

"No, no. Every person you encountered in Fortune City has upheld the virtues of truth, honesty, and justice. Well, except perhaps for Miss Balm but—" George Reaping was interjected again.

"I don't believe you. An' why should I? This is the first time I've seen you since me arrival 'ere. What have you been doin' since then? Oh. Yes. Sendin' other people, people so damn incompetent, to do your work! How can I trust a man like you?" Sweeney fired back.

_Stop! Do you hear me? STOP—Oh no no no, Toddy-boy. I've just begun!—You're ruinin' everythin'. Stop it. Stop. STOP. STOP!—I'm only makin' your afterlife more beautiful. Can't you thank me for that?_

"An' you," He glanced down at Catherine Daver and spat, "are just like that bastard up there. Except you chide Thomas, an' _you_ murder his happiness."

"Mr. Todd, what is the meaning of this?" She whispered, a worried appearance transforming her sunken features.

"The meanin' of this, she says!" He mocked before including, "There is no damn meanin' to all this rubbish. What am I doin' 'ere? I murdered people. An' you know what else? I _loved_ it. I'm insane—insane for blood! You know how beautiful it is? Runnin' down like rivulets across throats—innocent or otherwise is all the same to me. No blue blood from what I saw! HA-HA. HA-HA," He chortled, shaking his head.

_You're makin' an awful mess of things. I had a chance before, however small it was a chance.—A fool's chance. Come now, did you really expect a murderer to be saved? Did you really expect I would let you be saved?_

"Mr. Todd," George Reaping cautioned, "Think about your words."

"Oh, I have been Mr. Reaping. I have been thinkin'. Thinkin' what a down right shame for Mrs. Lovett. She can't make any of you into savory meat pies!" He wickedly cackled.

_Why, why are you sayin' these things?—'Cause you're too afraid to admit it. You've thought about it. Countless times. Don't deny it.—I wouldn't deny it. I just would never SAY it.—What's the point keepin' those things inside then? They eat away. Now, now. Quit your worryin'. I'll take care of you Toddy-boy. I will. I promise._

"So, you admit everything then? You admit murdering both innocent and condemned men? And furthermore, you admit killing is enjoyable?" The judge carefully questioned.

"If you were listening you would know, wouldn't you?" Sweeney acidly counter-questioned.

More silence was followed by a petrifying stillness—not a soul breathed.

"Very well, Mr. Todd," The judge sighed, very exasperated and disappointed. He waved the assembly away before including, "The final verdict will be announced at precisely eight o'clock this evening. Mr. Reaping, please escort Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett back here at the appointed time."

"Yes, your honor," George Reaping barely mumbled, choking on devastation.

_Well, my work 'ere is done. See you soon, Toddy-boy . . . See you real soon._

Sweeney released a held breath. His eyes were a more demure brown. His pupils were not treacherous points. He tried to steady the terrible shaking and floods of nausea.

_I prayed, I begged you for silence_, he bitterly thought, but _YOU. You up there so high an' mighty. You didn't listen. You never listened._

The faces were a blurred mixture of fury and gloom. Georgiana Reaping gave a meek, half-hearted smile to her husband and exited. Catherine Daver was relentless on George Reaping. She hammered him with hurried, anxious words. He remained silent. She was still insistent, still rambling. She was a pitiful wreck, pounding her fists against his chest.

He spoke, finally, after tears spilled from her open eyes, "Even the afterlife is unexplainable sometimes, Miss Daver. And like you always say, 'Clients never change.' How can you expect a murderer to change?"

"But, I believed him. I thought we had this one," She whimpered.

"We all did, Miss Daver," George Reaping replied and escorted her out.

Emma Balm leapt from her chair. She bounded to Sweeney, nearly tumbling him over. Her arms languidly wrapped around his tense body. She searched his eyes. Her voice was thick honey.

"Are you still in there, darling?" She inquired, lips parted.

"Release me," He commanded, turning his head away from her intrusive mouth.

"Oh," She grumbled and disengaged, a touch disheartened, "It is just _you_ then."

"What do you mean by that?" He spat, annoyance steadily increasing.

"Demons are prowling everywhere, nowadays," She answered, with an airy sing-song voice.

Sweeney did not bother saying more. He strode away from the painted, putrid whore—and to hell with whatever story she conjured about her 'tendencies'—very much intent on opening the door. His brain walloped against his skull with each miniscule movement. He needed an escape.

However, acrylic-tipped fingers were drumming his only exit. He mustered a vicious look into her crystallized eyes.

"Listen, I understand. You hate me. But you most certainly are not going to find your way around Fortune City. If I am not mistaken, this is the first time you have actually seen anything outside your home," She rationalized, piercing through his irritation.

She was right. Unfortunately.

"I would stay away from home, anyway," She continued.

"Why? Why should I listen to you? You've ruined everythin'. Just had to start sputterin' whatever you pleased—an' speak so poorly of things you know nothin' 'bout," He hissed, referring to her heartless commentary.

"I apologize," She stubbornly replied, rolling her eyes.

"I don't believe you," He mumbled, trying again to open the door.

"You should," She huffed, "I remember not so long ago you were supporting my position."

"I was not speakin' then. It was someone else, somethin' else," He responded.

"Irregardless," She stated, abruptly changing the subject, "You were never meant for an afterlife above Fortune City, Mr. Todd."

"So you've said," He retorted, violently pushing the door.

"And yet the blame is _always_ placed on me. Yet you never realize true deception—and especially not when you fuck her so nicely." She grinned.

The door was open. Just one step. Just one simple step. He could maneuver Fortune City without Miss Balm. He could manage. He was a capable, resourceful man.

But what man would allow such battery of his lover?

"Don't equate Mrs. Lovett—" He defended, but was interjected by her harping voice.

"Do you know what everyone is so adamant about here? The meaning and power of words. That little imp, Thomas, loosened his lips for me. And do you know what Mrs. Lovett said during her trial? She said, 'I will go wherever Mr. Todd goes.'" She mocked with a mediocre cockney accent.

"An' what does that have to do with anythin'. She was bein' sincere. She was savin' us," He deduced, growing weary of her voice.

"No, her submissiveness screwed you both. If she said, 'Mr. Todd will go wherever I go' then, you would be saved. From what I milked from dear Thomas, her trial was practically spotless. And after your dreadful performance, where do you suppose you will end up?" She reasoned.

That irresistible anger instantly ebbed into his veins. The urges were near insatiable. The vice grasp. The pleasurable thumping of her carotid. The glossed eyes with ghostly white sclera. The screaming— the gurgling, frothy madness of choking on blood better still! He could do without the pleading, the doe eyes. Oh, Mrs. Lovett had been spared the razor for far too long.

"What will you do now?" Emma wondered, only slightly concerned.

But then, he remembered. His razor was for momentary pain—but that would not suffice. His words would leave her open wounds for years—maybe even centuries now, if only one man could be so lucky!

"Nothin'. Absolutely nothin'. 'Cause nothin' is wrong," He replied, teeth clenched and lips curved into a crooked smirk.

* * *

Author's Note: I apologize for the horribly long delay. But now that school is out for summer (I don't go back until September 3rd, yay!) I should have way more time for finishing this story and commenting on well-deserved ones. :)

Until the last time, faithful ones.


	15. Chapter 15 The Last Evening

_You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul. _Julie de Lespinasse

* * *

Her hair was usually barbed and caustic, like a thicket of thorns—such a picturesque duplicate of her demeanor. The smoke escaping from her pursed lips tickled his nostrils. It had a peculiar odor. A combination of burnt wood and metal—perhaps something one would smell in a blacksmith shop.

She took another drag from her cigarette, purposely blowing the smoke directly in his face. Her acerbic voice followed, "Are we waiting for anything important, Mr. Todd?"

Her use of words. Her ridiculous stilettos tap-tap-tapping against the pavement—an obvious, childish signal for impatience. Her total lack of respect. These little quirks would have been obnoxious. It would have taken miracles—no, a divine intervention, no the very hand of God—to pry his razor-gripped hands from cleaving her flesh, sawing her ribs, and repetitively gouging her heart. He would scrape her ventricles. Cauterize her aorta. Watch her blood fill and then eject, spraying his visage. How he craved and missed hot, steamy blood.

But these were actions he _would have_ done. There was no reason to get caught in memories past.

At the moment, her hair was very deceiving. Her curls mocked the sun. She had a golden crown of thorns—blindingly brilliant amidst the burgundy horizon.

He could not contain a smile.

She countered his gesture with a creased frown and up-turned nostrils. She spoke again, "I'm not here to entertain you, Mr. Todd."

"An' yet that was your intention at Dr. Mortis' office, wasn't it?" Sweeney questioned, the smile plastered against his teeth.

"Yes," Emma Balm huffed before including, "but I've grown bored of you. You aren't worth the hassle. Besides, I've stumbled upon something wonderful—someone wonderful."

"Mr. Stone?" Sweeney Todd inquired, interest momentarily peaked.

"Thomas?" She gagged, almost choking on noxious smoke, "Listen the boy is fun. But that is it. He is a mere boy. And only fun for a short time, for gossip and the sort. Do you understand?"

"Mmm," He answered with utter indifference.

"But, you never answered my first question," She mentioned, blowing out more smoke, "Are we waiting for something?"

"Your little pup, I'm afraid," He sighed, watching tall streetlights flicker.

"Why?" She complained, face turning melancholy.

"You mentioned not goin' back home. An' I agree. No reason rushin' to that trickery with open arms," He growled, balling his fists.

That woman, he dared call lover, was monstrous. She was more than mere words, beyond any cruel conjugation his mind could muster. She was the reason for all his hatred. She was the reason for his vengeance. She was surely the most beautiful pretender—and he believed all her sugared lies. He would never trust her. If she insisted on parading around with fancy airs and feigned smiles, then fine. He would do the same.

Emma Balm raised one eyebrow, but shrugged her curiosity away. She commented, "I'm glad you understand the truth of that matter."

"An' Miss Daver mentioned Thomas would escort me—an' I suppose you too—to the fields. Said somethin' 'bout wantin' me to understand harvestin'," He replied, glancing her way for any additional information.

But she revealed nothing.

"Oh," She responded, "Thomas must be choosing then."

"Must you all be so vague 'bout this?" He scoffed, noticing a waving figure approaching.

"When you see the fields, you'll wish I was still vague," She said, giving a fictitious wave to a certain zealous assistant.

* * *

"Don't you find this humorous, Mr. Todd?" She questioned.

They were only walking up a pebble-infested hill behind the courthouse. She was holding her precarious stilettos in one hand, skull-embossed lighter in the other, and a limp cigarette was dangling from her pursed mouth. Her feet were battered and bruised, little beads of blood trailed behind her advancing steps.

"Doesn't that hurt?" He wondered aloud, mesmerized by her patience and determination.

"Ah-ah," She lightly scolded, "Answer my question first."

"Come on you lazy-daises!" Thomas Bertram Stone called, forcefully waving both arms, "All the good ones will be picked over!"

Emma Balm shook her head and snickered. An airy, elongated sigh followed behind her chortle.

"Humorous … like how excited Mr. Stone is—_all the bloody time_?" Sweeney Todd mocked, taking some frustrated kicks out on the pebbles.

"No, no," She negated before including, "You are actually tolerating me."

And he was hiking alongside her. And he was concerned about her feet—a truly irrelevant matter! But he was not angry, nor the least bit vindictive. The situation was slightly humorous, yet undeniably peculiar.

"Things change, Miss Balm," He replied, trudging forward but prodded, "Now, answer my question."

"I will answer your question with another question. If you are so concerned about my feet, do you intend to carry me?" She inquired, batting her noir-coated lashes.

"Pushin' your luck," He warned, but with a friendly smirk.

The hill was soon a plateau of grass and dirt fields—but Sweeney Todd lost his warm grin.

Emma heavily sighed and slipped her shoes back on. She did not even wince as her wounds were tightly packed and squished into those contortionist soles. She flicked her lighter open, lit the cigarette, and deeply inhaled sweet nicotine.

The black iron fence was impaled with skulls. The sharp points pierced through each gaping orbit. The gates were wide open, but far from inviting. The entrance was marked with hooded, twin reaper statues. Their arms were mere withered bones—a fragile ulna, a curved radius. Their scythes were interlocked but hovered like guillotines.

The fields were rows and rows of forearms, twisting wrists, and wriggling fingers. Some were wild, grasping around the terrain. Others were reaching higher and higher for anything—any gentle touch. And others were limp, resting against the dirt with only an occasional twitch.

"We always get more than the previous year," Emma commented and exhaled, "Such a shame."

Thomas was already stooped, examining small white cards, wrapped with white ribbon, around each wrist. He would flick one away, move to the next, flick one away and move to the next. He only examined stationary hands. His eyes would deepen with unfamiliar emotion upon evading the restless hands. He was disgusted—the repulsion clouded his pupils.

"Why—" Sweeny began, gazing out upon the endless waves of flesh.

"Would you like to see?" She countered, already sensing his question, "Why everyone passes over these wild ones?"

He did not have a chance to answer. Emma latched onto a particularly violent, swinging arm and pulled hard.

A woman, from the waist up, surfaced. She was coated with soot. Maggots wiggled and squirmed through her wounds. She was a blubbering, ranting mess.

"Who are you?" Emma Balm asked.

"P-p-puh-puh-lease, spare me. Grant m-m-me peace," She stuttered, desperately clawing the ground.

"What is your name?" Emma tried again.

"A-a-and, I've been down there so long. Let me go. F-f-free me!" She begged.

"What was your profession?" Emma continued, clearly not fazed.

"L-l-l-listen, p-p-puh-puh-lease!" The woman screamed, pounding against the ground. She looked at Sweeney for the first time—with only empty, bloody sockets.

"How did you end your living years?" Emma questioned, staring through her body.

"No. No. No. I wouldn't have done it. No. Not if I knew. Not if I k-k-k-knew!" She cried, patting the ground and stumbled over a pair of stilettos.

The woman was madly laughing and muttering incoherent sentences. She seized a leg.

"Remove your filthy hands at once," Emma hissed, trying to shake free.

Sweeney ignored them and scanned the dismal horizon. Bodies were uprooted from the earth, dusted, and shook around. If one was rotten—shoved back below with maddening, stomach curdling wails. If one was fresh—patted clean and escorted away. A colossal tree with numerous branches was not quite so distant. But the tree did not bear leaves or exposed buds. The branches bore nooses—and more bodies swaying against absent wind.

A rather cocky, arrogant business suit commented, "Well, good ones are always at the top branches. But what need do I have for _virtuous_ lawyers, eh?"

"Oh, yes sir. I concur. You have no need for the likes of _them_," A snub-nosed pencil skirt replied, offering large hedge-clippers.

He yanked the instrument and effortlessly clipped the nearest noose. A tattered man tumbled like a rag doll from the tree. The pencil skirt caught him, by the noose, and scrutinized his countenance.

A similar scene was unfolding—and Sweeney could do nothing but observe. Two pinstripe skirts were yakking near a pond, crouching, and sifting through floating bodies.

"Ugh, this one had some chronic lung disease too. Gives a new meaning to the term blue-bloater doesn't it?" The purple one cackled, pushing the body along.

"Oh, you really are too much," The red one scoffed, shooing a violent splasher away.

Sweeney was completely mesmerized. It was a garden of the damned.

"You vile, impudent creature!" Emma exclaimed, crammed her stilettos into the woman, and grated, "What makes you think you deserve a chance?"

"Don't y-y-you know what happens d-d-d-down there?" The woman cried dragging her nails across the dirt and clamored, "You did pick me! Help me up! I deserve anything but this!"

"You," Emma seethed and emphasized, "_You_ deserve nothing. You have no modesty. You have no dignity. You may feel pain. You may endure sorrow. But you fail to understand that through your suffering you have acquired a gift."

"A gift?!" The woman sputtered, struggling against shoves and pushing forces.

"You have no eyes. You cannot see what is below or above. You will never witness anything better or worse—just infinite dark. That is a blessing," She whispered.

"Are you crazy?" The woman questioned, dirt splitting her brittle nails from excessively scraping the ground.

Emma grimaced, kneeled, and jabbed two fingers into those gruesome orbits. She locked them underneath each maxilla bone and pulled. The woman elicited a jarring screech. Her throat erupted with hard chokes and wheezes.

"Fine, continue as you were then," Emma growled and jammed the punching, wailing woman back into the dirt and turned to Sweeney, "Do you understand now? Each one is a pathetic, worthless, piece of bones and rotten flesh. Eventually, each one will harden and wither—just like every other person in this damn city."

"Seems like you were givin' her some advice," He said after a considerable silence.

"Advice," She scoffed and murmured, "The one gift I would have cherished forever—and I gave her so freely. No matter. The putrid thing is too self-absorbed to understand anything."

"Like you?" He inquired and smirked, observing her body stiffen.

"Watch it," She barked, snapping her head to him, "I can do without your mockery. If you want to be of any assistance, you can help me stand."

She thrust her open palm to him. Sweeney contemplated grabbing her hand, perhaps gingerly or perhaps as a gentleman should for a lady. But even though Emma Balm presented him with some smidge of truth—and even if he could tolerate her antics—he was not content with her sudden irritation. She backhanded his thigh. Her impatience escalated.

"You wouldn't be so irate if there wasn't a bit of truth to it," He noticed, swatting her hand away like a troublesome insect.

"Why you impudent—" Emma started but quickly caught her words. She slithered upright and fired her concerns, "Are you playing with me? Is this some sort of game? Is this a _fucking_ joke?"

"No, just pointin' things out love," He commented.

"Ah, terms of endearment now. I understand. You worry about me!" She swooned with a theatrical sigh before including some reassurance, "There is no need for that. I am very, _very_ well taken care of—but perhaps a bit parched."

"But you 'ave no need for that," Sweeney recalled, watching her run a solitary finger over a dry, pouty bottom lip.

"Well, whatever you had to drink while living would never satisfy me now. But, shhh! This has to be our little secret," She whispered and smiled without showing her teeth—as if she was hiding something.

"Miss Balm! Mr. Todd! I've found someone, a replacement for me. I've been promoted to an assistant caseworker!" Thomas interrupted, bounding over to the pair. He straightened, caught his breath, and motioned behind him, "I really had a terrible time digging around for him, but I think Mr. Gregory Host was certainly worth finding. How long were you waiting again?" He questioned, presenting a faded man with azure eyes and bleach blonde hair.

"About one hundred years, sir," Gregory replied, staring blankly through the present company.

"Ooh, you poor man," Emma cooed, eyebrows knit together with pseudo-concern.

"But I'm sure you must be very relieved to be in Fortune City now, right Mr. Host?" Thomas questioned, giving him a hearty pat on the back.

"Yes, of course. I'm so happy. So very relieved," Gregory stated in heavy monotone.

"What a wonderful addition you will make to Fortune City, Mr. Host," Emma responded, then turned to Sweeney and included, "Just like everyone else."

* * *

His bones ached. His head pounded. His hands itched for the razor—his sweet, little helper. The razors were his only friends. They were faithful and honest. They never betrayed his love. They were always beautiful in burgundy. He could paint portraits. He could create such visionary masterpieces from flesh and blood.

But he abandoned them—for a woman. He lost them. Or maybe she hid them. Yes, yes he understood now. Her intentions were completely transparent. She was always jealous of his affection for them. She made him forget. She was the cause.

"Mrs. Lovett," Sweeney grumbled, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. He prayed the cool wood would extinguish his heated thoughts.

"Oh! Mr. Todd!" She exclaimed and heaved, "You gave me such a fright! Hmm, jus' like the first time. Funny ain't it?"

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"I know you told me to stay in bed, an' stay jus' the way you left me," Mrs. Lovett started with a deep, thick voice—her mundane attempt at seduction. She continued, "But I jus' had to get dressed. You know, with today bein' the day an' all. I wanted to pick out somethin' nice. Do you like it?"

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

"Mr. T, you haven't even looked at me yet. Your head is still restin' on the door. Are you feelin' alright? Is somethin' the matter? Is there somethin' you aren't tellin' me?" She produced each question with rapid succession.

His ventricles were irritated from her offensive voice. Each word prickled his fissures like pins. He turned his head right, although his eyes burned, and looked.

She was wearing a crimson gown accented with black velvet. Her neck displayed an ornate collar of rubies. Her hair was mussed into two buns—the usual, predictable style. She was dressed for royalty.

"Somethin' told me to wear red. Always thought it looked best on me. Don't you agree?" She smiled, rubbing bony fingers around her jeweled collarbones.

The color he loved with ardor and respect—the color of utmost worship. It would kiss his razor first, his precious instrument. Then, and only then if he was fortunate, the color would caress his fingertips. Or if he was truly blessed, and with absolute precision, the glorious color would shower his face—softer than rain, kinder than hail.

And what made _her_ deserve to wear _his_ color? She would never appreciate the majesty. She would never honor the purity. She degraded every last shred of his beautiful color.

"Yes, it suits you very well," Sweeney lied producing a very warm, yet fictitious, smile.

The answer seemed suitable enough for her. She nodded and made a little curtsy, but her form was awkward and unpracticed. He concealed a sneer.

"But you look troubled, love," She frowned and sashayed closer to his rigid body. She nuzzled her nose into his neck. Her hand slithered over his chest. Her whisper was scalding, "Let me ease your worries, _Master_."

Oh, but she was a cunning seductress! She distracted him from revenge and hatred—with nothing more than a smoldering piece of flesh between her legs. He would remove that little bud with one clean swipe—no, no even that was too kind. He would make slow, methodic hairline incisions. Her instrument of lust would be hanging by mere threads. His razor would thrust inside that greedy, gaping hole. He would tear her wide. He would cleave higher. He would split her navel, spill her intestines, hack away her sternum, chop her trachea, snap that delicate hyoid bone, and drag across her putrid mouth.

Those murderous desires tingled beneath his fingers. He exhaled.

"None of that now," He said and gently pushed her away. However, he did not want to appear very distant—then her curiosity would ignite. He cradled her hands and swallowed a curdling sensation, where it came, from his stomach. Sweeney masked the disgust in his words, "Keep yourself pure for tonight, me pet. Though our love is . . . beautiful, yes. I want to be washed of any notion of somethin' sinful."

Her eyes were suddenly luminous. Her voice exploded with jubilant exclamations and questions, "Oh, Mr. Todd! Are we destined for somethin' better than this? Oh, God is it true?"

"Yes, me dearest heart. We're destined for somethin' wonderful," He assured, mouth twisted into a faint smirk.

* * *

The promenade to the courthouse was unnecessary and tiresome. He heard nothing—for it was predictable, every damn word, what everyone yammered.

George Reaping and Catherine Daver were silent leaders—but that was just as well.

Mrs. Lovett was bursting with excitement. She was finally seeing Fortune City. Oh, wasn't it so long and anticipated for, Mr. Todd? Maybe it wasn't quite so sparklin' as Mr. Stone described—and here, Mr. Stone made some interjection. Oh, nothin' against you Mr. Stone, I'm sure. Maybe it wasn't jus' like you or I had pictured. But it is somethin', isn't it?

She was fastened to Thomas Bertram Stone, pointing at this building and that streetlight. She would not cease her rapid speech. Did she even pause for breath? She was a blur of words and phrases—a whirlwind so fast he only heard silence. And without hearing anything—somehow he heard it all before.

The only clear, discernable voice was Emma Balm. Her words were crisp like chiming bells.

"I would not think too much about anything, Mr. Todd. Much better to have an empty mind going into this ordeal—then you are neither surprised nor disappointed." The first bell rang.

"But I already know—" Sweeney whispered.

"Oh, oh," The second bell interjected and tinkled an octave lower, "Your lovely lady has no idea, does she?"

"The words lovely an' lady have no place with her," He lowly growled.

"Quite right," The third bell agreed.

"But no, she doesn't know anythin' at all," He affirmed.

"So what does she _think_ she knows?" The fourth bell emphasized.

"She thinks we're goin' somewhere wonderful—where daises bloom from clouds an' other such nonsense," He grumbled, sadly delving his hands into empty pockets.

The fifth bell giggled and shook her golden locks—her laughter was almost contagious.

"Quiet, quiet," He hushed, keeping a steady eye on Mrs. Lovett, and continued, "She'll hear us."

"She cannot hear anything but her own voice," The sixth bell tolled.

"I suppose that ain't terribly far from the truth considerin' all I can hear is you," Sweeney sighed.

The seventh bell chortled again and tossed her head back, making an unbearable cacophony.

"Quiet! Be quiet would you?" Sweeney barked.

"No reason for anger now! Calm down, calm down. I am only laughing because of the obvious. You are so perfect for below this city. And maybe, perchance, they will grant you a gift greater than you ever had while alive." The eighth bell concluded.

"They? What do you mean they?" Sweeney inquired and added, "Fortune City has not given me a single gift."

Emma Balm said nothing. She pressed one slender finger against her smiling lips. Her eyes were immediately ablaze with promises of misery and torture. Her pointed teeth were creeping out like spilled secrets—the last discovery he would ever understand. Her head cocked forward. He was powerless beneath her suggestion—so he looked ahead.

The brief conversation consumed him. He did not remember walking up flights and flights of marble steps. He did not remember sitting down or having Mrs. Lovett pat his leg—a stupid, preamble for reassurance. He did not remember the verdict—well, he already knew the verdict. He did not remember the presentation. Was the judge harsh and relentless? Was the judge exasperated and dejected? Or was he stoic yet professional? Surely he would have remembered if Thomas gasped words instead of spoke them.

But one aspect of this unfortunate memory lapse was recollected—and even if the fires of Hell lapped his bones clean, he would never forget her face. It was the most beautiful distortion of pain and sorrow—and how quickly her shade changed from alabaster to crimson! Neither the razors nor his hands could ever create such a chaotic masterpiece. His words sculpted the deep furrows and creases in her forehead. His worthless promises scrunched her nose. His empty kisses made her lips tremble.

Alas, nothing so perfect can last forever. And his genius, his mastery of evoking anguish without drawing blood was doused. His creation spoke some very familiar words.

"You," Mrs. Lovett marveled before rumbling, "You lied to me."

"Now you know how it feels," Sweeney replied with a flat affect.

She could have said anything—any damn thing. He expected stuttering whines transforming to flying obscenities. But he was graced with something much different.

Mrs. Lovett reeled her body back, shot her head slightly forward, and spat in his face.

It was a disgraceful moment, to have her saliva stinging and coated to his eyelashes. He might have deserved her spit trailing down his cheeks like tears—that was the closest to crying she would ever see. But what was ahead, or rather beneath, would be more than enough punishment.

What else was left? There were no choices. There were no options. According to Miss Balm, everything was already determined. You were never meant for an afterlife above Fortune City. That was what she rambled on about, right? So what the point of prolonging anything?

Sweeney wiped his face with both hands and shook away her frothy spit—but it clung to his fingers like a sickening reminder. There was nothing left to do but laugh.

"How can you be laughin'?" Mrs. Lovett asked between clenched teeth.

"Think 'bout what they called us in London," He chuckled, watching her features soften and a little giggle escape her lips.

"The devil's wife an' the demon barber!" She cackled, clutching her stomach.

"We never had a chance!" He howled, watching tears pour down her cheeks.

"Sweeney Todd and Nellie Lovett, I ask for your pardon as you depart below Fortune City," The judge said, breaking a peculiar bond between the condemned.

The judge did not wait for a response. He made a quick downward motion with his left hand.

The floorboards behind them opened—similar to trapdoors. Their chairs reclined and tipped back. The barber and baker slipped down into darkness.

Their hysterical laughter echoed and lingered long after the floorboards closed.

END

* * *

Author's Note: There is only one thing left to ask: sequel-worthy?


End file.
